


The Siren's Song

by lilgirlost (lil_grl_lost)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Dubious Science, Edwardian Period, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_grl_lost/pseuds/lilgirlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer of 1914, Pavel Chekov was lead male ballet dancer for Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballet Russes—Russian’s most premiere ballet company outside its borders.</p><p>And for the most part, Pavel was content to spend his nights dancing across the stages of Europe, even though he secretly dreamed of the stars—reading every book and journal article he could get his hands on. Yet that all changed when a stranger saved his life on a busy London Street.</p><p>Now Pavel must make the choice between doing right by his parents or following where his heart was leading him… to a loud-mouth Scotsman, who could make human flight possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my wonderful friend and beta, Adrienne, for all the hand-holding, even while she was drowning in Uni assignments. So all the remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Also, I won't give love to my wonderful fanmixer and artist for the amazing jobs they did with what they were given.

Scotty couldn’t believe he let Kirk talk him into this. What was wrong with wanting to spend all his time trying to perfect Kirk’s aeroplane? In Scotty’s opinion, that bloody American should be thanking him, not chastising him for being a dedicated (bordering on the mildly obsessive) worker. Regardless of the truth, Scotty couldn’t begin to comprehend how or why Kirk (and by Kirk, he meant Kirk’s lover Spock) thought a ticket to the ballet would possibly be something Scotty wanted to see.

Give him football, rugby, or a good scotch any day of the week.

Sighing softly to himself, Scotty waited to hand his ticket to the usher and couldn’t help but overhear the conversation taking place between two beautifully dressed English women, who made Scotty feel even more out of place. They were dressed in what he could only assume where the latest fashions from Paris, while his charcoal suit and white collared shirt were beginning to fray at the edges, due to years of wear and tear (abuse and negligent). However given his job as an engineer, Scotty rarely found himself needing to dress up, unless it was to attend one of Kirk’s investor parties. And with those, James T. Kirk never allowed Scotty to attend in anything less than white tie and black tails.

“Cecily saw them perform in Paris while on her wedding trip and she told me that Chekov dances almost the entire performance _en pointe_ , “ the blonde remarked, while her crisp English accent managed to butcher the dancer’s name (pronouncing it _Cheek_ ov with a long O and hard V sound), it gave way to a languid French tone as she spoke the last two words.

If Scotty hadn’t been so annoyed about being here, he’d probably have thought her accent beautiful. But since he was; he didn’t.

“Welcome to Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe, sir,” the young male usher greeted when Scotty finally handed over his ticket. “You’re on the left side, row H, seat 24,” he read off before handing Scotty a program.

With a nod of his head, Scotty thanked the man and began down the carpeted ramp leading towards the stage and orchestra pit. Once settled in his seat, the Scotsman leaned back and opened the large sheet of folded paper. He paid very little attention to the left and right sides of the program, which were mainly advertisements for various restaurants, products, and services; instead focused on the center panel, detailing the cast and crew of this production of _The Siren’s Song_. Unfortunately, the program failed to give any information about the ballet’s overall plot.

It was only after he had read the program from cover to cover for the fifth time did, Scotty finally give into temptation and pulled from his pocket a small notebook and pencil. Hunching into his seat, Scotty began to scribble equations and ideas for the building of Kirk’s new engine.

With aeroplane technology still in its infancy, everyone wanted to be foremost leader in the industry, and James T. Kirk had every intention of being that leader, especially when there was contract with the British government riding on it. If the British government wanted a squadron of brand new planes for their newly minted Royal Flying Corps, then Kirk had every intention of giving them just that.

As the lights began to flicker and dim, Scotty tucked his book and pencil away, settling back again in his seat. There was little doubt in his head that knowing Kirk (read: Spock) there was a distinct possibility of a quiz being in his future just to prove that he actually went and paid attention to the performance.

Turning his eyes toward the stage, Scotty watched as the curtains slowly began to open, peering into the idyllic world of small, sleepy, village by the sea.

><><>< 

_Once upon a time in a far away land across the sea, a young boy dreamed of the stars, dreamed of soaring higher than even the clouds to reach out and touch them._

_"Dear heart," mother murmured softly as she looped a scarf tightly around her the boy's neck. The ocean at this time of year was brisk and the mother had no wish for her baby boy to catch his death. "Be good for your father and remember to listen."_

_"Yes, mama," he replied, fidgeting ever so slightly. He had been itching for days for his journey across the sea. For too long, he had been content to simply see the stars outside his home; but now, papa was allowing him to come with him on a voyage across the sea and he was only 8 years old. What a grand adventure!_

_"Papa? Are we ready to go?"_

_"Yes, yes, you little scamp," father chuckled. "Go and get your bag and then we'll be off."_

_With his little knapsack in hand, the boy and his father set off for the port. The little boy never knowing that this journey was just the beginning of his grand and long adventure…_

><><>< 

“I trust the ballet was to your liking, Mr. Scott,” Spock inquired in his normal emotionless tone with his hands in their customary position, clasped behind his back.

When Scotty had arrived at work that morning, he’d hoped to be spared an interrogation due to Kirk’s meeting with Christopher Pike, who was the company’s lone investor. Yet his reprieve hadn’t lasted as long as he would have like (i.e. all day or the rest of the week, Scotty wasn’t exactly picky) because Jim Kirk along with his _roommate_ Spock had appeared a little before noon. Scotty huffed and rolled his eyes at the man, of course the damn ballet wasn’t to his liking. If Kirk had wanted him take a break then the man should have given him a stiff drink and long night in a pub somewhere. Instead of responding to the question, Scotty turned his back and focused on his new wing schematics.

“That was not an answer, Mr. Scott,” Spock replied after a few minutes of silence.

“Leave him alone, Spock,” Kirk said as he clapped his hand on his lover’s back, allowing his fingers to linger before pulling away. “Scotty obviously doesn’t want to talk about what an amazing time he had at the ballet, so it was a good thing you had the idea of giving him that ticket.”

“I do not find your sarcasm to be amusing, ashayam.”

Kirk smiled and winked at his stoic lover before bending over the table to catch a glance at what Scotty was working on. “Are we gonna be ready by Friday for another run? Sulu is itching to get behind the choke again.”

“Keep your pants on, man. We’ll be ready,” Scotty grumbled good-naturally, scribbling a series of numbers and letters in the margins. “Will McCoy be joining us?”

“Of course; he doesn’t trust that we’ll come out of this test flight uninjured,” Kirk replied, a little put off by his friend’s lack of trust in his people.

“Ashayam, I do not believe it is a lack of trust which compels McCoy’s need to be present but his Hippocratic Oath to do no harm,” Spock stated evenly, going as far as to raise a lone eyebrow at his American lover. “As such, it would be illogical if he was not present given the injury to Mr. Sulu’s arm during the last test flight.”

Scotty grinned while Jim merely rolled his eyes and sighed, knowing that Spock was correct. McCoy or as Jim affectionately called him, Bones, had just about killed over the moment he heard of Sulu’s injury, even though it had barely been a scratch— _It stops being a scratch if stitches are needed, kid_.

“Thanks, Spock,” Jim said shortly before leaning over Scotty’s shoulder to get a better look at the lighter and more aerodynamic wing span. The engineer’s design had promise and Kirk was itching to see it in action. But he knew that he’d have to wait until Scotty got the new engine at the level the Scotsman wanted, which was why they had another test flight scheduled for the end of the week.

Inclining his head, Spock stepped away but not before running two fingers along Kirk’s bared arm. It was a gesture that Scotty had witnessed many times between the two men; one he could only assume was cultural and that Kirk understood the underlying meaning behind it. Kirk gave Spock a smile and returned the gesture, catching the other man’s hand and running his own fingers against Spock’s.

As he silently watched the exchange, Scotty noticed the faint greenish flush on Spock’s cheek before the man turned away, his spine straight as he left the workshop. Kirk’s gaze followed his lover until the door shut behind him then he turned to Scotty and clapped his hands. “Now where were we?”

At hearing Kirk’s question, Scotty launched into action, pulling out a rolled stack of fuselage blueprints and laying them across the cluttered workbench, effectively putting all thoughts of the ballet out of his head.

><><>< 

“Ty goloden?”

At the sound of her friend’s voice, Nyota Uhura paused, glancing in his direction as her eye travel across his body, taking in the wool suit and white shirt he wore as well as his carefully styled hair. The curl that normally fell across his forehead was gone, slicked back in order to make the young dancer appear more sophisticated than his 19 years allowed.  

Pavel Andreievich Chekov was the first person, who had befriended Nyota when she had joined Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballet Russes a little over a year ago. The rest of the Russian trope had been wary from the moment Sergei had hired her; most of them believed she didn’t have the ability, the style, or the grace to dance within their ranks. However, in a matter of months, Nyota had gone from the corps to ballet to a soloist. Sergei found her style to be breathtaking and her erotic looks seemed to draw in those itching with curiosity to see a young African woman dance ballet.

The young dancer had been itching from the moment they had arrived in London to explore; unfortunately, the life of a ballet dancer in a traveling company left little time to actually enjoy the sights and sounds of each new city. But this time, Nyota knew that Pavel Chekov wouldn’t let a little thing like time stop him from seeing everything London had to offer.

So with a smile on her face, Nyota replied in a slightly accented French tone, “I could eat.” Although she couldn’t speak Russian, Nyota had managed to pick up enough Russian to understand the majority of the Russian being spoken.

Pasha smiled in return and held out his arm for her to take, which Nyota took gratefully. Once the pair had wandered through Savoy’s large and ornately decorated lobby and out onto the densely crowded street, Nyota stopped, waiting for Pasha to pick the direction they were going in. The young Russian turned left and right before deciding that left seemed to be the best choice; there seemed to be better shops and restaurants that way.

“What are your plans for your day off?”

Diaghilev kept them on a rigorous schedule: rehearsals from ten to two, dressing room by five, and the curtain opened at eight, with each dancer being allowed one day off a week. In spite of his demanding personality, Sergei had a softer side, one that worried about the health of his dancers, especially given how the number of hours they spent dancing _en pointe_. As such, the dancers relished their days off because for twenty-fours they were allowed to do anything they wanted to (within reason, of course).

“Bookstore, I think,” Pasha replied, choosing to speak in English instead of his native Russian.

During the course of their quick and easy friendship, Nyota had discovered that while his dedication to their craft was unmatched by most in their company, it was only due to his obligation to his parents’ wellbeing. After his father had lost favor with certain members of Czar Nikolay’s inner cycle, Pasha’s mother (a former ballet dancer herself, though an injury ended her career before it even began) worked tirelessly to prepare him for an audition with the Imperial Ballet School, even as his father saw fit to educate his son in English, maths, and the sciences. After all, Pasha’s passion for the stars wasn’t going to pay his parents’ bills, so the stage it was… at least for a little while.

So with every new promotion, Pasha could afford to send more money to his parents, which was one reason why Pasha had taken a position with Diaghilev. The troupe was smaller, but Diaghilev had connections and a reputation within the ballet community, which was why Pasha’s pay was better than he received as a soloist within the Imperial Ballet.

Nyota grinned teasingly. “Still on the search for your elusive book, Pasha?”

“I vill find it, Nyota,” Pasha replied, determination lacing his tone.

With a fond smile, Nyota turned and continued down the street, instead of responding. As she walked, her gaze took in the sights of London’s busy street; a scene that reminded her so much of home and she wasn’t thinking of Paris. No, she was thinking of a city in a middle of the grasslands. Nyota had been very young when her parents had decided to leave the French Congo; but she could still remember how she would hide beneath market stalls or run through the tall grass with her cousins. A much simpler time.

 “Vere did you go?”

Pasha’s question pulled Nyota from her thoughts, causing her to startle and shake her head, clearing away her memories. With a smile on her face, Nyota said, “Just my memories.”

“As long as they are happy ones.”

“They are,” she assured him before stopping at the corner to wait for a passing motorist. It was only after the motorist was halfway down the street, did Nyota cross to the opposite side, leaving Pasha to trail behind.

“I’m glad,” Pasha replied, once he had joined her. Taking her elbow again, Pasha steered her into the direction of a small restaurant on the corner.

The restaurant’s paneled glass façade wrapped around the corner of the structure making it appear like a convex mirror under an emerald green awning. Some of the dancers had taken to eating there while in the city; the owners were a kind older couple, who didn’t seem to care that their customers were from all walks of life. If anything, they seemed to enjoy it, simply because their patrons spoke of foreign places the owner’s wife had always dreamed of visiting.

“Good afternoon,” a stout, grey haired woman greeted as soon as Pasha pulled open the door. “Back again, are we?”

Nyota smiled and nodded her head, letting the older woman lead them to a white clothed table near the back. After they were seated, she handed the pair each a menu, written on one long sheet of paper, before stepping away to give them time to decide on their order.

“Vat is a Toad in the Hole?” Pasha wondered aloud, eyes reading the menu front and back then repeating the action.

“Sausages in a Yorkshire pudding batter,” Nyota answered distractedly, still reading her own menu. “Vegetables and onion gravy are usually served with it,” she finished as she set her own menu down, lacing her fingers on top of it.

Pasha nodded his head and said, “I think I vill have that.”

Just as he said it, the owner’s wife reappeared, caring two water glasses with her. Setting the glasses on the table, she glanced left then right, silently judging it they appeared to have made their decisions. “What’ll it be?”

“The cottage pie for me and he’ll have the toad in the hole,” Nyota said, instead of allowing Pasha to order. She knew that he was sometimes self-conscious about his accent when speaking to strangers. It wasn’t a terrible accent (there were much worse ones in the company), it just happened to be heavy at times, especially when Pasha was excited or nervous. The older woman smiled and took the menus from them before turning on her heel, entering the kitchen to give the cook their orders.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Pasha,” Nyota stated, leveling her gaze at her friend. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

Pasha tapped his chin for a moment, looking as though he was in deep thought before admitting, “There is a bookstore on Bond Street, and I’d like to visit.”

“Oh that sounds fun.”

“Yes,” Pasha agreed, giving Nyota a small smile before their lunch was set on the table. “It looks good, yes.” He told the older woman when she paused, clearly waiting for them to acknowledge the food she had just placed in front of them.

“Looks very good,” Nyota said with a tilt of her head. The owner’s wife beamed at them and bustled off to assist some of her other customers. As the pair ate, they let the sound of forks scraping against porcelain dishes fill the silence. Sometimes there was no need for words between, just the knowledge of a good friend close by.


	2. Chapter 2

When Pasha had left the Savoy early that morning, he’d never imagined that he’d have a near death experience, one that he never wished to repeat. One minute he was attempting to cross the street and the next he was being pulled back away from the road by a stranger’s hand as his new book, _The Birth of the World and Systems_ , fell into the street and became mangled under the tires of an out of control motorist.

“Lad, are ye alright?”

With a frown on his face at the sight of his damaged book, Pasha looked away and into the concerned eyes of his savior. Though he was upset by his book, the young dancer silently counted himself lucky that it only his book had been destroyed. It could have been a lot worse, if it had been him instead.

“I’m fine, my book not so much,” Pasha replied sadly after a few minutes of simply staring into the man’s face. He seemed to be older than Pasha with dark, thinning hair and a kind face; his speech was accented and if Nyota was here, she’d be able to place the man’s accent.

The man grinned and said, “Books are easily replaceable, lad. I can’t say the same for people.”

“Da,” Pasha agreed mournfully, still upset by the lost of his book. He had been saving what little he could from every paycheck to buy it. It seemed as his parents aged, they were in need of more money for various reasons and while Pasha didn’t mind supporting his parents, he sometimes wished he had the freedom to buy what he wanted without the added guilt and worry of taking from food from his parents’ mouths.

“Where are ye from, lad?”

“Russia,” Pasha said shortly, annoyed at being asked where he from. It was rude as far as the young dancer was concerned. He didn’t go around asking everyone he met where they were from, so why couldn’t people have the same courtesy with him.

“Ah,” the man drawled and then bent down to pick Pasha’s book from the street. The man held it in his hand for a few minutes before giving it back to its owner. “I particularly enjoyed the chapter on The Two Streams – Mathematical Theory.”

Pasha felt his eyes widen slightly as he reached out to take the book from the man. “You’ve read this?” His voice held a sense of awe at finally having met someone, who shared the same interest as him.

Nyota tended to humor him when he rambled on about the physics of space; but given Pasha’s career, not many dancers had an education above the ability to read, write and perform basic arithmetic. So the fact that Pasha wanted to hold discussions about celestial bodies and their place in the heavens left him with very few people to talk to about it.

“Ay, I have,” the man affirmed, a smile spread across his lips. “Books are damn expensive, I’d be happy to loan ye my copy. I’m Montgomery Scott by the way, Scotty to my friends.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, sir,” Pasha stammered, his accent becoming thicker due to his embarrassment at having the man’s brownish-blue gaze upon him. Ducking his head, Pasha leaned down and began brushing the dust from his trouser leg, hoping to avoid having to look the man in the face; he hated being the center of someone’s attention.

Dancing on stage he could handle, the bright lights made it almost impossible to see the audience; but the one-on-one rehearsals with choreographer Michel Fokine usually left Pasha feeling raw and in need of some quiet time. Unfortunately as a member of the traveling ballet company, finding quiet time could be likened to the English saying of _searching for a needle in a haystack_.

Scotty laughter boomed as he said, “Call me Scotty, lad. And if ye won’t take my offer than I guess I all I can do is offer to buy ye a cup of tea.” Then he added as an afterthought, “Ye do drink tea don’t ye…”

“Pavel Chekov and I do; but coffee’s better.”

“Well then Mr. Pavel Chekov, coffee it is,” Scotty declared, earning a bashful smile from the young Russian.

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Pasha rebutted nervously, shaking his head at Scotty. He hadn’t expected Scotty to take his admission of preferring coffee to tea as indication that he was willing to have a drink with him. “I must be going. Thank you for your help. Goodbye.” Turning his back to the Scotsman, Pasha began walking in the direction he had originally come from; but a rough hand on his arm caused him to pause.

It felt so different than Pasha’s own, which were smooth, free of any signs of a hard life, so unlike his own mother’s. Before her marriage, his mother had been the daughter of a banker, a life filled with servants, and for a time during her marriage, his parents had a kept a cook and a maid. Yet when his father had lost favor with the Czar, so to gone was their ability to afford the finer things in life; Pasha was barely two when they had left St. Petersburg.

“Sorry lad, I’ll only accept yer gratitude if ye’ll have a coffee with me,” Scotty told him, smiling gently at the dancer. The young man had intrigued Scotty in a way that few had, so Scotty had ever intention of not letting the other man go until his curiosity had been satisfied.

If there was one thing his time with Sergei had taught him, was how to tell the creeps and the perverts from the one’s that are generally interested in his personality and not just getting him into bed. The creeps were the ones that usually hid behind garishly jeweled women, who were slightly older then the men and seemed to hold the purse strings; while the others were either unattached or their wives were sweet-faced girls with an air of naïveté about them. As he regarded the man, Pasha could see the earnestness in his face; he only wanted to have coffee with Pasha, nothing more. So with a half smile on his face, Pasha agreed.

As the pair walked down the street towards a little coffee shop that Scotty knew Kirk and McCoy frequented, Scotty gestured wildly at the surrounding area, telling stories about each building that may or may not be entirely true, and Pasha’s eyes could only follow his moments. Since it was his first time in London, Pasha was content to listen as Scotty rambled about a notorious serial killer, who preyed upon the children of desperate and fallen women. Instead of using the money from the children’s mothers to care for them, she’d murder the children (usually infants) and spend the money on her own whims and wishes.

A shudder passed through Pasha’s body. There were some truly horrible people in the world; some he’d witnessed first hand while studying in Saint Petersburg. The screams of the peaceful protestors outside the Winter Palace still echoed in his mind along with the sounds of gun fire when the guards opened fire on them.

When word of the massacre reached their town, his parents were forced to weigh their options: take him out of school or risk the chance of losing him if the protests against the government intensified. The civil unrest in Russia was one driving force behind Pasha’s decision to take Diaghilev’s offer; if Russia continued down this path then it was a Russia that Pasha wanted no part of.

“Sorry, lad,” Scotty said, looking a little sheepish at having cause his companion’s discomfort. He hadn’t meant to; but sometimes, he couldn’t make his mouth stop moving. It was one of those flaws that his mother hadn’t been able to fix; although, if you asked his father, he got his over-talkative nature from her, a claim she vehemently denied.

“It is fine,” Pasha told him with a smile. “It is all wery interesting to hear.”

“Well in any case, we’re here,” Scotty stated while rubbing the back of his neck shyly and motioning with his eyes to the brick store front. Reaching out, Scotty grabbed the door and pulled, holding the door open for Pasha, who smiled gratefully.

As soon as the pair entered, Scotty directed him towards a small table in the back of the shop, deciding not to sit by the window. Some patrons enjoyed watching the crowds of Londoners pass by the shop’s large windows, but Scotty only knew it led to trouble. The last time he’d come to have coffee with Kirk and McCoy (since Spock only drank tea and never cared to join them), it had almost ended with a brawl in the street.

One of the passer-bys hadn’t liked how Kirk was apparently looking at his fiancée. The woman, of course, had giggled, flirted, and made doe eyes at Kirk, which only seemed to anger the young man further. It wasn’t until McCoy had stepped in, grabbing Kirk by the shoulder and leading him away, did the young man finally leave. If it had been Scotty’s way then they would have definitely ended up cooling their heels in the local jail. The Scotsman wasn’t one to turn down a good scotch or a good brawl in the street.

Once seated, Scotty picked up the menu and looked through it, trying to remember the specific drink Kirk had ordered for him last time. It wasn’t a very big coffee drinker, so Kirk or McCoy tended to recommend his drinks. McCoy’s choices were more mundane, coffee black; while, Kirk always seemed to order the more fluffy drinks, the last time had been a Cappuccino, which seemed to be more milk and sugar than actual coffee. Not that Scotty would ever say it to Kirk’s face, unlike McCoy, who informed his friend quite gleefully of that fact.

“What do you recommend?” Pasha finally asked, breaking their comfortable silence.

Scotty shrugged his shoulders and then grinned. “I had the Pharisäer last time. It was better than I thought. Not much of rum drinker, give me a good scotch any day of the week.”

At hearing Scotty’s remark, Pasha shook his head and wrinkled his nose as a small ‘bleh’ sound fell from his mouth.

“Let me guess, lad, ye only drink Vodka.”

“Of course… was invented in Russia,” Pasha answered proudly, his chest puffed out while giving Scotty a narrow eyed look, almost daring the man to tell him otherwise.

With a bark of laughter, Scotty said, “Ack, ye can keep yer milk diet.”

“It’s not a milk diet. It’s much manlier than Scotch,” Pasha fired back, annoyed at hearing someone dishonor his native country in such a way. His papa had always told him, vodka put hair on your chest and money in your pocket; although, Pasha never really understood the phrase as a child.

Opening his mouth, Scotty began to refute the claim but the appearance of their waitress caused him to close his mouth again.

“What can I serve you, gentleman?” The woman’s accent was stilted and her speech slow, like she was trying to sound more gentile than she really was. If it was true, it wouldn’t have surprised Scotty in the least.

Many shop girls had to change the way they spoke and dressed just to find work in respected restaurants and department stores. Owners frowned on having their wealthy customers being served by young men and women, who sounded like they should be hawking fish down by the wharf.

Scotty looked at Pasha, who looked back at him and then silently indicated with a nod that he was ready to order. “I’ll have the Pharisäer and my young friend here, will have a…”

“Coffee, black,” Pasha supplied and gave their waitress a smile, which she returned before leaving to fill their orders.

“Not very adventurous?”

Pasha shrugged half-heartedly, tilting his head a little as he did so. “Usually, but I’m not much in the mood today.”

“Still upset about yer book?”

“Not so much upset as annoyed with myself. Nyota had told me time and time again to watch where I walk, to not let my mind drift so much. And today, I almost proved her point.”

“No harm done, lad. These things happen; though, yer friend Nyota sounds like a very good person to have in yer corner.”

“She is,” Pasha agreed happily, shoulders relaxing a little now that the conversation had shifted away from his folly and to a more agreeable subject, his best friend. “My best friend… Sergei is always telling me that without Nyota, my dancing  ability would be superb but I would never find the ground to put it to use.”

“Ye dance?” Scotty asked, peering curiously at the man, almost as though he was looking at him for the first time. Now that Scotty really looked, he could see a dancer’s body hidden beneath the man’s well-cared for suit that was a few years out of date. He might not enjoy wearing suits and ties or formal attire; but Scotty knew current vogue at any rate.

Pasha smiled shyly. “Ballet, mostly.”

“Ah,” Scotty drawled before the appearance of their waitress caused him to stop. While he waited for her to serve them, Scotty’s gaze drifted to the table and fell on Pasha’s hands; the hands he was flexing in an almost nervous habit, a clear sign that he probably didn’t want to talk about himself. After tucking what little information he had on the man away, Scotty decided to focus on a topic the younger man seemed to be very keen in… space. “Have ye ever read any of Arthur Schuster’s work? I’m wondering because he had such an influence on Eddington.”

“I have,” Pasha stated, barely holding back a small sigh as he brought his coffee to his lips. Blowing across the top, Pasha peered at Scotty through lowered lashes. “My papa gave me a copy of his _An Introduction to the Theory of Optics_ before I left Russia. Are you a physicist?”

“I studied it at University; but my passion is planes.”

“Airplanes?”

“Aye,” Scotty confirmed, “I currently designing a new type. I hope to make it faster and smaller.”

Pasha gazed at Scotty in wonder; from the moment he had read of the Wright brothers’ achievement at Kitty Hawk, he had always wanted to see an airplane up close. Although he dreamed of space, Pasha understood that man must first conquer the Earth’s sky before ever thinking of actual space travel.

At seeing the younger man’s look, Scotty chuckled and asked, “Ever seen an airplane before, lad?”

“No,” Pasha stated with a sad shake of his head. “But I would like too.”

“In that case, I’ll see what I can do,” Scotty said with a maniac grin before moving their discussion onto another, vaguely, related topic. “Now… have ye had a chance to read Niels Bohr’s theory of atomic structure?”

><><>< 

“Mr. Scott, I’d like a word with you,” Hikaru Sulu called out the moment Scotty reappeared in the airplane hangar. The young Japanese pilot had been waiting patiently since two for the Scotsman to return from wherever it was he disappeared on his jaunts into the city.

“Aye lad, what can I do for ye?” Scotty was distracted and a little frazzled as he shifted blueprints and scraps of paper from one end of his workbench to other, searching for a single piece of paper he knew he had laid down after returning from the ballet. The Scotsman hadn’t meant for the time to get away from him; but the moment his conversation with Pavel began was the same moment that he lost all track of time.

“The choke is sticking when I…” Sulu started, trailing off at the end after realizing that Scotty wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to him. With an annoyed sigh, Sulu waited a few minutes before finally asking, “Mr. Scott, can I help you find something?”

“No, lad,” he replied as he picked up a rolled stack of paper and shoved it under his workbench; the blueprints were all the first or second drafts of his design, which were pretty much irrelevant now considering Scotty was already somewhere between drafts ten and eleven.

With the majority of his bench cleared, Scotty could see the corner edge of the ballet program he had been searching for; but instead of grabbing it, he turned to Sulu and said, “Sorry lad, I didn’t mean to ignore ye. Now what can I do for ye?”

“The choke is sticking,” Sulu stated bluntly, having decided to choose quickest over tact, while he still held Scotty’s attention. The man seemed hell-bent on finding something, so whatever it was it had to important enough for him to appear so frazzled. “I thought at first it was just the newest of the gear; but I’ve been working with on the ground and it doesn’t seem to be loosing any,” Sulu explained.

Scotty nodded his head and grabbed a sheet of paper, quickly scribbling a few words on it before laying it aside. “I’ll have a look at it, Mr. Sulu. Thank you for letting me know.”

“It’s my job, sir,” Sulu told him, chuckling a little as he said it. “I’m finished for the day, is there anything you need from me before I leave?”

“None that I can think of, lad, so have a good evening.”

“You too, sir.”

Scotty waved to the Japanese man as he left and then waited until he was sure Sulu was gone before pulling the fruits of his search from under a pile of wing span calculations. Smoothing out the wrinkled program, Scotty examined the fine print, eyes searching for one name in particular, which turned out to be the first name listed under the cast heading:

_Pavel Chekov ………….. The Boy_

If Scotty had known Pavel before seeing the ballet the first time, he would have made a concerted effort to actually pay attention; but since he hadn’t, Scotty intended to rectify his mistake as soon as humanly possible. With a grin on a face and the battered program in hand, Scotty walked into Kirk’s office and picked up the newly installed telephone. “Operator, can ye connect me to the Theatre Royal Drury Lane?”

“On moment, sir,” a tiny voice replied in a swift manner before Scotty heard a faint click as his call was connected. “Go ahead, sir,” she added and then fell silent, leaving Scotty to make his call with as much privacy as one could considering that there was always someone listening in.

“Theatre Royal Drury Lane?”

“Yes, sir,” a male voice responded solemnly. “How may I be of service?”

“I’d like one ticket to the Ballet Russes’ next performance, if possible,” Scotty replied nervously, not so secretly hoping that the remainder of their performances weren’t sold out, yet. While over coffee, Pavel had let it be known that the company wouldn’t be in London for much longer, until the end of the week, and then they were back to Paris for a few nights before the company would board a ship for the South American leg of their tour.

“Please hold while I check, sir,” he stated and then there was muted thud; Scotty assumed he had set the mouthpiece down, so he could actively examine the theatre’s seating plan. It didn’t take him long to return, saying, “I have a couple of tickets left in the balcony for tomorrow night’s performance, sir. Is there a particular place, you’d prefer?”

“Which ever one is closest to the railing and has a good view of the stage,” Scotty told him. “The name’s Montgomery Scott.”

“Very good, sir,” the man replied, “you may pick it up at the window at any point tomorrow, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank ye,” Scotty answered and then rang off, but not before giving the operator a quick thank you. After setting down the phone, he checked his pocket watch for the time, seeing if he how much time he had before he needed to leave to make it home in time to change before getting over to Covent Garden for tonight’s performance.

After scribbling Kirk a quick note, Scotty left the office, stopping long enough to grab his bag from under his workbench before making his way towards the hangar’s door. Checking the time on his watch, Scotty mentally ran through his schedule for tomorrow, making adjustments so he’d be sure to leave work in enough time to go home, change his clothes, eat a quick dinner, and make it to Covent Garden in enough time to spare. Although if he left five or ten minutes earlier from work, it would give him enough time to stop in at the bookseller from the corner from his float and pick up a replacement copy of Pavel’s destroyed book. If the dancer wouldn’t take Scotty’s own copy, then he left the Scotsman no choice but to buy him a new one, making sure that it finds its way into his Pavel’s dressing room.

So with a smile on his face, Scotty switched off the hangar’s lights, plunging the three test planes and the bits and pieces of other ones into total darkness, before closing and locking the door behind him. If Scotty allowed someone the opportunity to come in and steal his work, he’d never hear the end of it from Kirk. Never mind, being on the receiving end of Spock’s eyebrow; one arch and Scotty felt like he was back in primary school with Mrs. Archibald. An experience Scotty hated to have repeated.

><><>< 

“Pasha?” Nyota asked, laying her hand on his shoulder, once she had managed to find Pasha again, who had changed from his cream body suit (the legs painted a dark brown to resemble torn breeches) into a charcoal lounge coat with matching trousers and a blue and white striped tie, though he hadn’t worn a waistcoat.

After the last curtain call, her friend had seemed to disappear from sight… most likely avoiding Sergei or Nijinsky, the latter who took great issue with Pasha dancing the lead in his ballet. But ultimately, it had been Sergei’s decision to cast the young Russian in _The Siren’s Song_. It was a departure from the choreography of Nijinsky’s other works, where a dancer’s movements were more rigid and compressed… a complete departure from the classicism of Russian style.

Turning to his friend, Pasha looked at Nyota, who was still in her siren costume, a dress constructed from cotton, silk chiffon, and lamé with a touch of metallic ribbon. The style reminded Pasha of the gowns worn in the famous Greek paintings and structures of old. “Da?”

“One of the stage hands asked me to give this to you,” Nyota told him as she handed over the book in her hand. The tome was navy blue with gold lettering on the spine and the title _Stellar Movements and the Structure of the Universe_ embedded on the front. Just from looking at it, Nyota knew it was brand new and most likely purchased hours before tonight’s performance.

“Where did he get this?” Pasha lightly fingered the covered, tracing the title before turning it over in his hand, seeming to test its weight in his hand. There was only one person who it could be from and it left Pasha in awe on Scotty’s generosity.

“I can only assume that it was left for you by someone in the audience,” Nyota observed without taking her eyes off Pasha’s face and the faint flush that had settled there.

“Thank you, Nyota.”

“Just out of curiosity…” she said, voice trailing off before asking, “isn’t this, the same book that was damaged yesterday?”

“Da,” Pasha replied looking shyly at Nyota. While she might have known his sexual preference, it didn’t mean that Pasha was comfortable discussing it, especially when they were standing in the stage wings of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.

“Did you meet someone, Pasha?” Nyota asked, obviously fishing for information about Pasha’s day out, yesterday. Her friend had been tight-lipped after he returned and Nyota wasn’t one to push, unless absolutely necessary. “A secret admirer perhaps?”

“Oh no, just a nice man that saved me,” Pasha denied, trying to save face with his friend. Though, it did very little, especially when combined with the deepening blush across his cheeks.

“Doesn’t look that way to me,” Nyota remarked with a sly grin, “but what do I know.”

“Nyota…”

Rolling her eyes, Nyota waited a beat before asking, “Walk with me?”

“Da, but hurry, curfew starts in a half an hour.” Pasha shooed her away towards the dressing room. While he was happy to wait and walk with her back to their lodgings, he didn’t want to miss their curfew time. Sergei might’ve let them do as they wanted during their free time; but when they were performing, their time belonged to him and it wouldn’t do for his dancers to be drowsy and irritable during morning rehearsals.

“I’m going,’ Nyota said before turning and walking away.

It was only once she was gone, did Pasha finally open the book in his hands, finding a folded, hastily scribbled note.

_Pavel,_

_I know you said that you wouldn’t take my copy, but I couldn’t allow you to go without reading Eddington’s work. I know you’ll find as much enjoyment from this text as I did._

_You expressed an interest in aeroplanes, how you like to see one? I can be contacted at Enterprises, Ltd., if you’re interested that is…_

_Looking forward to hearing from you,_

_Scotty_

“Liar, it is a secret admirer,” Nyota accused gleefully, having snuck up behind her friend. She really had meant to let Pasha keep his secret, but there was just something about yesterday that had sparked her curiosity. Normally Pasha would regale her with all the things he saw and did on his day off; yet yesterday, he had returned to the hotel and gone to bed after eating a light dinner. It left her worried, especially when he refused to give into her demands when she pressed him for information. Lowering her voice, she asked, “So what’s he like?”

“Nyota!”

Giving Pasha an incredulous look, Nyota waited for him to speak. She knew her friend too well to believe that he was actually scandalized by her question; his indignation was more due to embarrassment at the idea they were even discussing his personal life. For a man, whose career was to be surrounded by an adoring public, Pasha tended to be very private about the inner workings of his own life. It took six months before Nyota even knew anything about Pasha’s parents or the life he had left behind in Russia.

“Smart, funny, kind, and an engineer. He builds airplanes and loves space,” he supplied, causing his blush to deepen as he looked bashfully at his friend.

Nyota smiled knowingly. “A man after your own heart…”

“Ready to go?” He asked, quickly changing the subject instead of replying. Pasha had told Nyota as much as he wanted to tell her, especially when there was no guarantee that Mr. Scott even liked him that way. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between a pleasant manner and flirting.

“No,” Nyota replied while giving her friend a look, which clearly told him their conversation wasn’t over yet. With a sigh, Pasha watched as she disappeared into the rapidly dispersing crowd. Most of the dancers were either in the dressing room or already making the journey back to their hotel for the night. The only people that seemed to be still on stage were the crew, who were returning props and other equipment back to their proper place.

><><>< 

_The first few days were long and boring for the little boy and he tried hard to listen to his father’s commend to stay below deck. Yet the stars seemed to call to him, luring him from the safety of their cabin and out onto the deck, where rough men cursed and spat while swinging through the air on thin lines of rope._

_On the fourth night when the sea turned violent, the little boy wished he had stayed below deck as he father ordered. But just like every night before he hadn’t, so as the winds hissed and the waves crashed, tossing the ship to and fro, the little boy was washed overboard and it was as he fell, he heard the anguish cries of his papa._

_As the seas calmed, the little boy clang to his salvation, a lone piece of driftwood, even as his arms began to grow tired and heavy; but in the horizon, the little boy saw the faint outline of land in the distance. With a kick of his legs, the little boy urged the wood forward, all the while hoping that it meant he would soon be home to mama and papa…_


	3. Chapter 3

Scotty was floating on cloud nine because as soon as he had arrived at the hanger that morning (well before Kirk could even be bothered to get out of bed without prompting from Spock or McCoy), their secretary Janice Rand had handed over a short message from Pavel, stating that he could come at ten and to ring back at his hotel if that time wasn’t possible. The message had left Scotty feeling giddy, much like a young school girl on the cusp of her first crush.

Although, his good mood didn’t last, especially after Kirk arrived. That man had a way of making a person want to punch him in his grinning mouth, which seemed to be standard reaction to anything Jim said—just ask his oldest friend, Doctor Leonard McCoy.

“What’s with the suit, Scotty?” Kirk called out as soon as he spotted Scotty across the hangar’s large open space. In its previous life, the building had been used for furniture manufacturing before the company moved into larger accommodations. Though, Kirk had seen the building’s potential. It was the exact size he needed (and could afford) to house—after a little remodeling—an airplane company in its infancy. The loading docks had been knocked out to allow for a large bay door to be installed, so airplanes could easily get to the small strip of asphalt that served as the company’s runway. While it was only big enough for one plane to take off and land, Jim had plans to expand his operation if and when he managed to secure the contract with the British government.

To Kirk, Scotty didn’t resemble his usual haphazard appearance. Instead of his white bib and brace coveralls that was always streaked with grim and grease, the Scotsman was dressed in a full dark tweed suit (the clothes the coveralls usually hid) with a red carnation in his lapel. 

“Can’t I show off my suit without getting the third degree?” Scotty demanded, bringing his hands to his hips in a combative gesture. Logically he knew that Kirk meant no harm by his statement; yet Scotty was nervous and his nervousness tended to come out as aggressive behavior.

“Yes but usually you don’t,” Kirk said while making a point to give Scotty’s suit a full head to toe glance. “So I’ll ask again, what’s with the suit?”

With a scowl on his face, Scotty glared at his boss, waiting patiently to see if there was actual legitimate purpose to their conversation, other than remarking on Scotty’s state of dress.

“Jim, I believe you are attempting to anger Mr. Scott,” Spock state evenly without an ounce of inflection in his voice.

There was a strangeness about Kirk’s friend… lover?... that tended to leave Scotty feeling unbalanced after most of their encounters because of his habit of being quite literal in everything he spoke or did. It was like he was an automaton, meaning if an automaton had the ability to speak or think independently of their set programming… which it couldn’t. However the first and only time Scotty ever admitted his unease to Kirk, the man had told him that it was product of Spock’s culture. Which culture that might be was anyone’s guess?

“I’m just joshing with him, right Scotty?”

Yet instead of replying, Scotty twisted on his heel and stomped off to the storage room, muttering about bloody Americans, who thought they were funny and something about them needing to mind their own damn business.

“Or not,” Kirk drawled, earning Spock’s patented look, a lone eyebrow arched in skepticism.

“Fascinating.”

Ignoring Spock’s declaration, Kirk turned and looked at his lover, asking, “Are you working tonight?”

“I am not,” Spock told him as he clasped his hands behind his back; another of the man’s quirks that Jim had thought to be a cultural norm for his people, which his lover’s father had later proven.

Like Spock, Sarek had an aversion to other’s touching his bare skin, so he had the tendency to wear gloves even in the middle of a sweltering summer. Yet on further examination, Jim discovered their aversion had everything to do with a sensitivity to skin on skin contact.

Jim grinned and then gave Spock a playful wink. “Just don’t make any plans.”

“If you wish,” Spock intoned, bowing his head slightly, while extending his index and middle finger toward Jim in a familiar gesture. Even within the safety this hangar where their secret wasn’t so much a secret as a statement of fact though no one dared to mention it out loud, both men adhered to societal norms, choosing not to be overt about the true nature of their relationship.

Jim mirrored Spock, reaching out to meet Spock half-way with his own fingers and then rubbing them lightly until the sound of heeled shoes on the hangar’s stone floor forced them to pull away. With a twist of his body, Jim watched with curious eyes as a young, sharply dressed man approached their position. “Hello, are you lost?”

“I’m looking for a Mr. Scott…” The curly haired man replied, the barest hint of nervousness in his voice as he looked around the large open space and then behind Spock and Kirk to a series of airplanes in various states of repair.

“Uh,” Jim said, head titled as he briefly regarded the young man’s appearance and the slight heaviness of his Russian accent before yelling, “Scotty!”

“You don’t have to bloody scream, man. I’m not deaf!” The Scot called back as he leaned his head pass the storage closet’s doorway. The storage closet had become a place of refuge when Scotty wanted to hide from Kirk which turned out to be a lot of the time. The funny thing was everyone knew it, even Kirk. So it hadn’t taken long for the small and cluttered room to quickly become unofficially designated as Scotty’s office—meaning everyone knew to steer clear of the Scotsman while he was in there.

Giving the younger man a smile, Jim shrugged and said, “You have a visitor,” with an arch of his brow in Scotty’s direction.

“Pavel, you made it,” Scotty exclaimed jovially, causing a blush to stain Pasha’s cheeks. “I hope getting here wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No.” Pasha shook his head and smiled softly at Scotty. The engineer didn’t need to know about the little white lie that Pasha was committing with Nyota’s help in order to be there.

Pasha should have been in rehearsal at that exact moment, but a quick made up illness meant he could miss rehearsals in order _to_ _recuperate in bed_. Sergei needed all his dancers to be at their peak for tonight’s performance, especially after the rumor mill had exploded, speculating whether certain members of the Royal family would be in attendance at Drury Lane.

“Scotty?” Jim asked once Scotty had joined them. Jim might not have been a wizard like Scotty when it came to engines and airplanes; but Jim had a knack for reading people, so there was no doubt in his mind that this young man was some how connected to the Russian ballet. It would appear that Scotty hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with his details about his time at the ballet. The boy was cute (if a little young) Jim would definitely give him that.

The Scotsman meet Jim’s pointed, questioning gaze with one of his own as he went through the proper introductions. “Pavel, I’d like you to meet my boss Jim Kirk and his _roommate_ Mr. Spock. Mr. Kirk, my friend Mr. Pavel Chekov.”

“Nice to meet you, Pavel,” Kirk said, holding his hand out for Pasha to shake. “Chekov… Russian, isn’t it?” He asked, letting Scotty know that he was onto his game… hadn’t enjoyed the ballet, his right foot.

Ducking his head, Pasha mumbled a soft, “da,” causing the tips of his ears reddened under the scrutiny of Kirk’s gaze.

At seeing the look Jim was giving him, Scotty quickly interrupted Jim’s train of thought before the American had the opportunity to say or do anything that would give Scotty the urge to maim his boss. “I invited Mr. Chekov to see our beautiful lady.”

“Oh, you did, did you…?”

“I did,” Scotty challenged, voice hard as his eyes silently pleaded with Jim to agree and let his fallacy go for the time being. After all, there would be plenty of time later for the American to yell at him to his heart’s content.

“Silly me, I must have forgotten,” Kirk replied before giving his friend a look that clearly said they were definitely going to discuss this—whatever this was—later. With a clap on the back, Kirk told Scotty, “Carry-on, Mr. Scott,” before leaving the engineer with his guest.

“Thank you, Captain,” Scotty said, addressing Jim with a more honorific title than a legitimate one… a joke referring to Jim’s position as the leader of their mission… a mission to perfect the perfect airplane for the newly minted Royal Flying Corps.

With a final backwards wave, Jim and Spock left Scotty to his guest. There was a stack of paperwork in his office calling his name and Miss Rand had made it abundantly clear when he had left the office last night that she fully expected for every scrap of paper to be looked over and signed before the close of business today. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions.  

Once the office door had shut behind the other couple, Scotty finally allowed himself to give Pasha his full attention. The Scotsman had been afraid of looking closely at the dancer because he hadn’t wished for Jim or Spock to realize the full extent of Scotty’s feelings for the young man… feelings that had been quietly growing over the last few days. Yet even without looking at the young Russian, Jim had seen through it all so there would definitely be a long conversation in his future.

While Scotty wasn’t a novice when it came to relationships with men, feelings that stemmed beyond lust rarely were a factor. He knew that he was taking a risk by trying to get close to the Russian, yet he couldn’t seem to make himself care. The Scotsman wanted anything and everything that Pavel was willing to give him, even if it was only the few remaining days he had until he was off to Paris again.

“Shall we take a look?” Scotty asked, grinning at the dancer, who returned the grin with a small smile of his own.

Licking his lips, Pasha twisted on the heel of his shoe, regarding the three, two seater bi-planes thoughtfully before asking, “How are they different?”

“Glad you asked, lad,” Scotty began while ushering Pavel in front of it, allowing the younger man to get the best possible view before launching into a detail and enthusiastic rundown of each airplane’s specification as well as the modifications he intended to make.

><><>< 

“Scotty, we’re heading out for lunch,” Jim announced sometime later while the Scotsman was elbow deep in rotary engine prototype #0241. He was attempting to explain to Pasha the pros and cons between a rotary engine and an in-line engine. “You and Mr. Chekov are welcome to join us.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Kirk, but I couldn’t—” Pasha began, though Jim was quick to interrupt, dismissing the dancer’s reluctance with a wave of his hand. Jim, generally, didn’t take no for an answer, especially when it was something he wanted, and in this case, he definitely wanted to understand how the young Russian had managed to catch (and hold) Scotty’s interest.

“It’s my treat. Besides, any friend of Scotty’s is a friend of mine,” Jim added while gave Scotty an inquisitive look yet knowing look, a look which Pasha very much understood, thus the reason for a faint flush to spread across the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you, sir.” Scotty scowled, though he made sure to turn his face away, so Pavel couldn’t see it; he didn’t want Pavel to get the wrong impression about his reluctance to take lunch. Scotty would very much love to have lunch with Pavel; yet the prospect of having Jim and Mr. Spock in tow didn’t hold the same appeal.

“Come. The car is this way,” Spock stated as soon as he approached (after having been detained on the telephone by a colleague); but just as soon started to move away, not bothering to wait for a response from his companions. With a cheeky grin, Jim shrugged his shoulders and then turned, jogging to catch up with Spock, who was already lingering patiently at the hangar door for them.

Inside Jim’s car, a brand new Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, the group fell into a comfortable silence as Spock steered the car from Hanger Hill to Pall Mall, where Spock and Jim’s club, the Athenaeum, was located. Originally, Kirk had wanted membership to the Bachelor’s Club, but Spock had just as quickly vetoed the idea when he discovered just how young and wild its current members were (and Jim had only agreed because one eyebrow arch from Spock was enough to make him realize that he just might never get sex again if he didn’t).

As soon as Spock pulled onto a side street a block up the club, Jim turned, looking Scotty in the eye as he said, “No fights.”

“It was one time,” Scotty protested quickly. It wasn’t his fault James Doohan was too stupid to be reasoned with, especially in regards to a theory published in the _Proceedings of the Royal Society A._ It was nothing but tripe… ‘Couldn’t hold water’ as his gram would’ve said.

“Regardless, you got into a screaming match with Doohan and the steward was this close to throwing you out,” Jim told him, demonstrating with his thumb and index finger how just how close the steward been to tossing Scotty out on his ear. “If he’d thrown you out, you’d be banned for life.”

Scotty pulled a face at Jim’s statement, knowing his employer was being a tad hypocritical considering how he had met his largest share holder, Christopher Pike.

Jim had recently been given control of his trust (which had been set up following his father’s death, the same day as Jim’s birth), and Pike had the misfortune (fortune?) of meeting his old friend’s son. The barely twenty-two year old had been on the losing end of bar brawl with a few newly-minted ensigns, who had taken one look at their commanding officer and had left.

“Scotty…” Kirk drawled in warning and then exited the vehicle to join a waiting Spock on the sidewalk.

“Understood, Captain,” Scotty retorted shortly, though a quick grin showed his tone was without a hint of the intended malice.

Catching a glimpse of Pavel’s face, a mixture of uncertainty and excitement, Scotty reached out and held the dancer’s hand, offering what little confidence he dared to give while enjoying the feeling of smooth skin against his calloused fingers. After a mental count of ten, Scotty pulled away and opened his door, stepping out of the car into the warm summer sun. For once, London wasn’t caught in an endless cycle of rain and fog.

Pavel followed a minute or so later, sliding out of the car so he could stand beside Scotty, which was the exact moment he decided to take a chance and lace his fingers through Scotty’s, letting his touch say everything he was too scared to say aloud. Scotty’s gaze turned to Pavel’s, a slow smile spreading across the Scotsman’s face, letting Pavel know he understood clearly everything he was trying to tell him.

“Alright, love birds,” Jim murmured, breaking the spell the pair had fallen under, “let’s not do this here.”

With a sharp head nod, Scotty pulled away, placing a foot or so of distance between him and Pavel on the pavement. While he knew there was nothing wrong with his attraction towards his sex, society wasn’t so forgiving. Just last week, a pair of men had been jailed for moral depravity and lewd behavior; they had grasped hands for longer than deemed necessary by a passing constable.

Pavel blushed at the comment but stayed silent as his eyes drifted up, taking in the Anthenaeum for the first time. The cream colored three level building showed the heavy influence of neoclassical design with its two-columned Doric portico and replica of the Parthenon’s bas relief frieze (an romanticize version of the Panathenaic procession from the Dipylon Gate in the Kerameikos to the Acropolis) above its first floor windows. At the building’s first floor, a stone and metal barrister ran its perimeter, circling the four sides and creating a faux balcony that extended to roof of the front porch where a statue of Pallas Athene stood overlooking Waterloo Place.

Taking the front stairs two at a time, Jim pulled open the large wooden doors and ushered his companions into the marble lobby, leaving them to admire the room while Spock and he arranged for Pavel and Scotty to lunch with them. The ornate lobby had the same Greek influences as the outside with its framed columns that supported a barrel shaped ceiling, and a large, single staircase branching off at the landing, leading to the left or right. Within recesses and upon block pedestals, Greek statues of men and woman adorned the room, drawing the eye to their naked or barely covered forms, lending to one’s imagination of being inside an ancient Athenian temple.  

Once the pair had returned from conversing with the steward, Jim nodded to the hall porter and turned, leading the way up the stairs where he paused and said, “After lunch, we’ll give you the full tour. At present, lunch is beginning to conclude, so I think we’d better eat while we still can.”

Scotty and Pavel each nodded at Jim’s merit of Jim’s statement and followed him up the left side of the staircase with Spock bringing up the rear. The Athenaeum’s coffee room was tastefully decorated with cream walls (gold leaf along the bases and ceilings), crimson carpets and curtains, and a pair of low-hanging electric lights that cast harsh lighting over the elegantly set mahogany tables and chairs. On top of pristine white table clothes, polished cutlery (with butter dish and salt and pepper shakers), water and wine glasses, and a napkin artfully folded into a mitre lay at the ready for the next diner.

As soon as they were all seated at a table by the window, their waiter quickly appeared, informing them of the day’s menu before stepping away again to fill their water glasses and bring a bottle of pink champagne. It was only after the waiter had disappeared into the kitchen that Jim turned his attention again to Pavel, staring at him as he attempted to get a read on the younger man. “So Russia, huh?”

“Da…”

“What’s it like?” Jim asked before nodding his head at their waiter, who just returned with their water and champagne. “Cold, I imagine.”

With a nod of his head, Pasha said, “Wery, but beautiful during the first snow.” There was an almost wistful tone in his voice; the same tone that Jim got when he spoke of Iowa. He might not have had the best childhood, but Riverside, Iowa still held some of Jim’s fondest memories. For one, it was where he met Christopher Pike; a man, who would eventually lead him to meeting Spock, so Jim didn’t exactly have any regrets about spending an unhappy childhood there.  

“Sounds nice,” Jim replied sincerely. “Iowa was always seemed bleak in the winter.”

“Iowa?” Pasha echoed, rolling the unfamiliar word on his tongue. Although Pasha wasn’t well-versed in the history of the United States, he did know that some of its rivers and even a couple of states’ names were Indian in origin.

“Yeah,” Jim breathed out, “state in the Midwest, sometimes called _America_ _’s heartland_. Nothing but cornfields as far as the eye can see. But enough about me, tell us about you?”

“Captain…”

Pasha’s cheeks pinked, embarrassed by the American’s attention, yet touched by Scotty’s subtle warning to his employer. “I’m dance for Diaghilev’s Ballet Russes,” he stated proudly before letting his shoulders fall into a half-shrug. There wasn’t much else that Pavel could say on the matter. He ate, slept, and breathed the ballet.

“A Russian ballet dancer,” Jim stated, causing Scotty’s scowl to deepen at seeing the pointed looked Jim gave him while he spoke.  

Ignoring the intense staring contest being waged between Scotty and Jim (which was actually pretty normal, just as normal as it was to hear McCoy curse like a sailor every time Jim did something McCoy thought was stupid), Spock looked at Pavel and asked, “Do you hold any other interests?”

“Da. Physics and space,” Pasha said with a smile. “I wanted to be a physicist but my parents could not afford it.”

Spock nodded in supposed understanding. “There was money to be acquired by dancing.”

“Mama was a former ballerina herself and she taught me until I left for the Imperial School at nine,” Pasha explained.

“So young,” Jim murmured butting into the conversation. “And your dad?”

“He taught me mathematics and the sciences,” Pasha told the American, every bit proud of his education. It might not have been as formal as his papa had wanted for him; yet his papa had done his best with the superior knowledge he’d received during his own university days.

“Then my work will likely be of interest to you,” Spock remarked, causing Pasha to regard him curiously, his expression silently urging the other man to continue. “I am a researcher at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich.”

“Where Howard Grubb’s 28-inch telescope is?”

“Yes,” Spock answered in what appeared to be an uninterested voice, but Jim knew different. His lover was very interested in the young dancer, especially given the promptness of his question.

Most people, after learning of Spock’s employment, tended to ask a few simple questions before focusing on Jim’s passion in airplanes and all manner of fast things. The scientist didn’t care one way or another; yet for Jim, their subtle rudeness left him feeling irked and irritated on Spock’s behalf.

With the arrival of their waiter, Pavel paused and watched as he served their first course of oysters and creamy watercress soup. It was only after their waiter had left that Jim leaned into Spock’s space and switched his soup for Spock’s oysters. At seeing Pavel’s inquisitive look, Jim explained, “Spock intolerance to most kinds of meat and seafood, so I take those dishes and give him my vegetable-based ones.”

The Russian nodded with a smile and then took a sip of his soup, which was quite excellent… creamy with the perfect amount of watercress to cut the spiciness of the horseradish and blue cheese. “May I ask what your research is in?”

“You may,” Spock replied, falling silent for a couple of minutes until Jim’s well placed nudge and meaningful glance told him not be obtuse and answer Pavel question, properly. “My current research is focused on the existence of Vulcanoid asteroids.”                      

“Hypothetical asteroids believed to orbit a stable zone within Mercury’s orbit,” Pavel explained more for the benefit of himself than his lunch companions. The only reason he voiced it aloud was to determine that he was correct in his knowledge. Otherwise, he was certain Mr. Spock would have quickly and efficiently corrected him. “Have you found any?”

“You’ve read Edmond Lescarbault’s paper,” Spock stated and then added, “I have not and do not believe I will.”

“Why not?”

“As Albert Einstein continues to expand his theory of special relativity, I am certain the existence of Vulcanoid asteroids will be disproven,” he reasoned, leaving no room for doubt about where he stood and thus effectively ending the conversation.

The rest of lunch passed in relative silence, save for the occasional word at the continuing reappearance of their waiter, who always seemed to arrive at the just the right moment, efficiently clearing one course before laying out the next.

A meal that included mustard tarragon chicken cutlets for the main entrée (which Spock didn’t eat and split between Scotty and Jim), a second course of asparagus with shallot caper vinaigrette (that Jim pulled a face at before giving it to Spock), quail with ginger-cranberry pilaf and jellied cranberry sauce with Fuji apple for their third course, and finally finishing it with a dessert of Madeira syllabub and coconut ice cream.

Once lunch finished, Jim proceeded to give Pavel the promised grand tour, a tour that included the morning, drawing, and smoking rooms (rooms were decorated in a mixture of wood and leather furniture). While the last stop on the tour was the most impressive room in the club, the South Library, a room filled from floor to ceiling with books. Three levels of bookshelves covered every wall of the room and were only accessible by a single metal staircase that spiraled as it went from the second storey metal and wood walkway to an identical walkway on the third.

“Spock, you’re allowed guests at the observatory, correct?” Jim innocently asked sometime later, once they had exited the Athenaeum Club.

With a slight eyebrow raise, Spock regarded Jim long and hard before replying with an affirmative. Although there was little need to do so, since Jim himself had been a visitor to the observatory a number of times during their long relationship. His lover was hinting at something and it didn’t take Spock long to figure it out, given Jim’s not so secretive glances towards Scotty and Pavel.

“Mr. Chekov, how would you like to tour Mr. Grubb’s telescope tonight as well as the many other astrology instruments we have available?”

“I’d love too,” Pasha exclaimed before quickly remembering that he was due to perform tonight. The white lie was only for the day, he was supposed to miraculously _recover_ in time for an eight o’clock curtain call. However this was probably the only opportunity he’d ever have to see the night sky through the largest refractor telescope in the world. And while Nyota would be upset, Pasha knew she’d forgive him… eventually.

“Then it’s settled,” Jim remarked with a clap between Pavel’s shoulder blades. “I’ll send a car around tonight to pick you and Scotty up from your hotel.”

“Actually, Mr. Kirk, it would be bet—” he started to say, only to be interrupted by Scotty, who had managed to piece together a likely truth behind the dancer’s ability to visit him. The Scotsman had remembered in passing that the Russian received one full day off a week, a day just so happened to be the same day he had save him from a maniac motorist.

“You can pick him up from my house,” Scotty said. “I have a couple of books and articles that I’d like to show the lad.”

“Of course, Scotty, I’ll send the car around eight,” Jim replied before holding out his hand for Pavel to shake. “It was pleasure meeting you, Mr. Chekov. I do hope to see you again.”

Giving the America, a bashful smile, Pasha said, “You as well, sir,” before allowing Scotty to drag him in the direction of an approaching omnibus on the opposite side of the street.

Once Scotty and Pasha were safely across the street and on the bus, Spock turned and looked at his lover. “Ashayam, I do not understand why you wished for them to have an evening at the observatory?”

“Don’t you, Spock,” Jim purred coyly as he reached out to brush his first two fingers along the back of Spock’s hand, sending memories of their first time under the stars through the mental link they shared. Spock called the connection a bond… a form of marriage for his people, an idea that Jim thought was pretty awe inspiring.

“I concede to your logic, ashayam.”

“I thought you might.” Jim grinned before making his way down the street in the direction of their car. With Scotty gone and no other plans for the day, Jim planned on spending it with his _husband_ , enjoying a peaceful afternoon alone before his best friend (and doctor) arrived home from his Harley Street practice.

><><>< 

_The morning dawned bright and clear as she slowly made her way down from her cliff home, a home she shared with her sisters, to walk along the beach. She and her sisters rarely left the safety of the cliffs, yet an unknown force had drawn her out, calling out to her. Much like her song lured ships and their crew to their watery graves._

_As she neared the water, she stopped and stared, never expecting to find a small human there. The sailors that came to her island home were big, foul-smelling, and covered in more hair than the curly hair covering the young boy’s head. Running her fingers gently through his curls, she wondered briefly what she was supposed to do with him. If he had been a sailor, she would have let her voice rise and led him back into the water. For she and her sisters were sirens… luring men to their deaths while taking great care in ever allowing men to touch them._

_Her eyes drifted across the boy, following the curve of his slightly chubby cheek and his slim fingers lying across his rising and falling torso. To think this boy would one day grow into a man she would revel in killing with her song. If her sisters were here, they would drown the boy before he became a man; but there was something about him that had lured her closer. He had enchanted her as much as her song enchanted sailors._

_Reaching out, she touched the pale and chilled cheek, waiting silently for the boy to awake and then she saw it, his eyes fluttering against the harshness of the sun. The boy’s eyes widened as he scrambled back from her touch, frightened by her appearance._

_At seeing his fear, the siren pulled her thin shawl across her face, for she knew her appearance wasn’t one of beauty. She and her sisters were only as beautiful as their song made them seem. Holding her hands out, she tried to show him that she meant him no harm._

_The boy paused, seeming to weigh his options before deciding she wasn’t a threat and came closer to her, grasping her scaly fingers in his own. A smile spread across the siren’s face as she rose and pulled him toward a series of caverns beneath the cliffs. He would be safe from her sisters there…_


	4. Chapter 4

The door slammed shut behind them, Scotty pressing Pasha against the wood and chasing the young dancer’s kisses with his own. “Pavel,” Scotty murmured roughly between kisses; kisses he couldn’t seem to get enough of.

“Pasha,” the dancer gasped when Scotty’s mouth left his and trailed down his throat to the junction where his neck and shoulder met. “Call me Pasha.”

Pulling away, Scotty stared into Pasha’s eyes; the bright green of his iris was just a ring around his blown pupils. “Pasha,” Scotty repeated softly, “a beautiful name for a beautiful lad.”

A blush stained Pasha’s cheeks at Scotty’s compliment causing him to lean in again, initiating another kiss between them. The pair traded kisses several more times while hands roamed across shirted backs and down to belted waists. Resting his forehead against Pasha’s, Scotty broke their kisses again and softly asked, “Are you sure you want this, lad?” Yet instead of a response, Pasha raised his hands to Scotty’s chest and pushed, forcing the Scotsman out of his personal space.

A bewildered flashed across Scotty’s face as he followed Pasha’s urging, silently wondering if he had offended the dancer in some way. Scotty’s biggest concern was the age difference between them; he never wanted the young Russian feel like he was being forced. It just wasn’t his style. Scotty had no wished to be **that** man… the lecherous older man with a much younger man. Scotty wanted what Spock and Jim had, a relationship that could be seen by the world as one of mere friendship, allowing its true nature to stay hidden.

Once Pasha had Scotty where he wanted him, he sashayed closer, forcing Scotty backwards, and only stopping once the Scotsman’s back was resting against the adjacent wall. Plastering his body against Scotty’s chest, Pasha walked his nimble fingers down Scotty’s side to his hips, laying them there and breathed, “I’m sure. I want you and I want this.” To emphasize his last statement, Pasha gripped Scotty’s belt and tugged, letting the Scotsman know exactly what he wanted.

For the first time in a long time, Pasha was meeting the chase head. Normally, Pasha would deploy a tactic of avoidance—hiding from creepy fans, who made his skin crawl and were only interested in him for one reason… sex; yet Scotty was different. For one, they shared the same burning passion for mathematics and physics; they understood the beauty in how one equation could mean the difference between falling and flying.

“Oh, lad,” Scotty murmured while wrapping his calloused hands around the dancer, cupping firm buttocks as he lifted Pasha, compelling the younger man to shift his hands to Scotty’s shoulders, so there was room to bend and rest his knees on the Scotsman’s hips.

After a few seconds of staring into Scotty’s blue and brown speckled eyes, Pasha grinned mischievously and asked, “Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?” Though his voice was husky with want, his tone was light and playful, letting Scotty know the dancer was definitely on board with anything and everything the engineer was willing to give him.

Without missing a beat, Scotty surged forward, using his back muscles to push off from the wall as he walked with Pasha still in his arms. The climb up the stairs was going to be a tad difficult, but Scotty knew that carrying a 160 pound dancer up a flight of stairs wasn’t any different than lugging a rotary engine from one side of the hangar to the other. Although as soon as Scotty approached the staircase, Pasha turned his head away and looked up, eyeing the first flight of carpeted stairs (and mentally calculating the next flight) before returning his gaze to Scotty.

“I can walk.”

“I know you can, but I’m going to carry you nevertheless,” Scotty replied gently but firmly.

“I much too heavy,” Pasha tried again. While he knew that Scotty would never intentionally drop him, it didn’t stop the healthy amount of fear he was feeling at the prospect of being carried up two flights of stairs.

At realizing the cause of Pasha’s hesitation, Scotty loosened his grip on Pasha, allowing the dancer to slide down his body until both feet were touching the wooden planks. Once Pasha was safely on the ground, Scotty tightened his grip on the dancer’s hips and leaned down, brushing his lips once then twice against kiss swollen lips. “Are you sure about this?” Scotty asked, accent deeper due to a mixture of want and an underlying worry that Pasha was telling him that he had changed his mind.

Scotty hadn’t always had the best luck with men. Sure they were more than happy to talk with him about any number of subjects, but the moment Scotty even tried to initiate the simplest of touches, the other man would back off and by the end of the night be in the arms of a much younger and handsomer man.   

“I’m very sure,” Pasha said firmly, taking care to enunciate the _v_ , before stretching to his toes and pressing a kiss to Scotty’s forehead. “You silly man, take me to bed.”

Scotty laughed as he brought his hand up and rubbed it along Pasha’s cheek. “It will be my pleasure, lad.”

“I hope it will be my pleasure too,” Pasha replied, giving Scotty a cheeky grin as he grabbed the hand on his cheek and turned towards the stairs, intent on leading Scotty up them. And the Scotsman certainly wasn’t complaining.

As Pasha lead the way to the first floor, Scotty couldn’t help but enjoy the view of clothe being pulled tight across the seat of Pasha’s trousers, accentuating the power muscles in the dancer’s legs. Once at the top of the stairs, Scotty reached out to touch, letting his fingers finally drift over the same muscle and bone he’d just been longingly staring at.

The touch of Scotty’s fingers startled Pasha, causing him to jump lightly and then spin around to glance at Scotty, who merely widened his eyes in supposed innocence. But Pasha wasn’t fooled, so instead of speaking, Pasha reached out and ran his hand down Scotty’s chest, stopping once he got to the small swell of the engineer’s stomach and spreading his fingers across it.

“Lad?” Scotty murmured; the worry still in his voice even though Pasha was going everything in his power to show how much he wanted this man.

Shaking his head, Pasha moved his hands to Scotty’s chest, tapping his fingers in perfect rhythm as he asked, “Which one is your room?” And with just those five words, relief practically flooded through Scotty’s body.

“This way,” he replied, taking Pasha’s hand in his own as he crossed in front of the dancer, tugging him to the room at the end of the wall.

From what Pasha had been able to see, Scotty’s house was worn yet well cared for, at least he thought so from just seeing the ground and first floors of the Georgian row house. The building’s red brick exterior had white stucco along the lower level which ended at the first floor balcony. As they had left the entrance hall and made their way to the stairs, Pasha had seen a large drawing room that lead into a separate dining room. The size of those two rooms was enough to rival the entirety of his parents’ home in Russian.

After pushing those thoughts aside, Pasha focused on the warmth of Scotty’s hand in his own as the engineer lead him into a bedroom at the back of the house, which had beautifully crafted walnut furniture surrounding an iron wrought and brass bed. Letting go of Scotty’s hand, Pasha crossed the room and sat on the bed, looking expectantly at Scotty, waiting for the engineer to join him.

Scotty allowed his eyes to drift over Pasha’s form before he pulled his suit coat off and draped it across the back of a nearby chair. Now in only his shirt sleeves and braces, Scotty walked to the bed, stopping just in front of Pasha, and reached out, cupping the younger man’s face as he leaned in for a kiss. Pasha’s kiss was light and anxious, like he’d lost some of his emboldened passion between the stairs and the bedroom. Their kiss continued for a few more minutes before Scotty broke away, thumb rubbing against the soft skin of Pasha’s cheek as he stared into the dancer’s lust-filled and anxious green eyes.

“Is this your first time?”

Pasha shook his head in negative and tried not to think about the men he had gone home with during his first year with the Imperial Ballet. Those encounters were different than the ones of his youth. Instead of a little light petting followed by a quick finish, some of the men had been aggressive bordering on the forceful, caring only about their pleasure. They were memories that Pasha really wished he could forget.

Pressing a kiss to Pasha’s forehead, Scotty helped the dancer to his feet, tugging his coat and vest from his body before focusing his attention on his shirt, belt, and trousers. And as soon as Scotty’s hand touched Pasha’s belt, the dancer’s anxiousness disappeared, and he surged followed, tugging at Scotty as he helped the engineer out of his own clothes.

Once they were naked save for their cotton drawers, Pasha wrapped his fingers around Scotty’s shoulders and fell backwards, dragging the engineer down with him, causing Scotty to let out a small sound of surprise that was quickly followed by a bark of laughter as he peered into Pasha’s flushed face.

 _Cheeky lad_ , Scotty thought, spreading his body across the lean body beneath him. Pasha’s body’s was a work of art; one that could rival the beauty of Michelangelo's David, with his powerful muscles under flawless skin. He was a sight that Scotty knew he’d never get tired of looking at, especially the flush tone his skin had taken. The sight made Scotty’s heart race at knowing he was the reason for it.

With fingers trailing over muscle and bone, Scotty pressed open mouthed kisses to Pasha’s soft skin, laving at pert nipples as he gave into his desire for the young dancer. And with every kiss, their passion grew until finally Pasha grew impatient and stopped Scotty with a forceful jerk to his cotton drawers. They needed to be naked and now or Pasha felt like he was going to loose his mind. So with efficient fingers and helpful hips, they were soon naked and relishing the feel of skin against skin.

Reaching out, Scotty groped for the glass bottle of oil he knew that he’d left on his bedside cabinet. Once his hand wrapped around the cool vial, Scotty pulled back and dropped it beside Pasha’s hip. With a soft smile, Pasha spread his legs and bent his knees, cradling Scotty’s body with his own. And then keeping one hand on Pasha’s hip, Scotty slipped his other hand down, brushing his fingers against the crease before retreating, grasping for the vial of oil.

After dribbling the oil on his fingers, Scotty’s fingers returned to Pasha, gliding inside the ringed muscle and slowly stretching it out. He wanted to make this enjoyable and if the little gasps and moans coming from Pasha’s mouth were any indication then he was definitely succeeding. As Scotty’s fingers continued to open him, Pasha brought his hand up and wrapped it around Scotty’s neck, playing with the wisps of hair he found. Though, it wasn’t very long before Pasha was yanking on those same hairs, causing Scotty to looking questioningly at the younger man.

“Please,” Pasha whispered brokenly, “enough.” A look of disappointment flashed across Scotty’s face, and as he tried to pull away, Pasha’s hand came up and drew his face close, foreheads resting together. “In me, you silly man, I need you now.”

Without needing to be told twice, Scotty guided his erection into the dancer’s tight heat, releasing a low groan when he bottomed out. Pasha responded with a moan of his own, taking pleasure in the sensation of being so full. Draping his legs around Scotty’s hips, Pasha held the other man close as Scotty moved, jerking and snapping his hips back and forward, making sure that the head of his cock stroked Pasha’s sweet spot as much as possible. This was as much about the dancer’s pleasure as Scotty’s own, if not more.

When he began the feel the tingling start at the base of his spine, Scotty movements became more frantic as he chased the feeling. And through it all, Pasha held on tight, emitting stuttered moans and broken gasps with every thrust. Squeezing his eyes shut, Scotty moaned Pasha’s name as he came, spurting deep inside the dancer, before collapsing on top of the dancer’s heaving chest. Once Pasha had unwound his legs, Scotty shifted down, intent on seeing to Pasha’s own pleasure. So with a single minded focus, Scotty circled his hands around the straining flesh and guided it to his mouth, enveloping it in wet heat.

Threading his fingers through Scotty’s short hair, Pasha hung on for dear life as Scotty brought him closer and closer to edge. With a sharp yank on his hair as warning, Pasha tried to warn Scotty, but the engineer ignored him. Instead he opened his throat and sucked Pasha down, his throat muscles contracting around the tip, which was all Pasha needed to send him over the edge. Never had any of Pasha’s previous encounters been anything like this; the dancer felt like he was heaven and it was an experience that he very much wanted to repeat again and again.

With a smile on his face, Scotty leaned back on his heels, staring down at the sex flushed body of his young lover, who sleepily blinked back at him. “Happy, love?”

“And tired,” Pasha slurred, his accent much deeper than when they started. He sounded absolutely adorable in Scotty’s humble opinion.

After a quick clean up—using the water from the basin on his bedside cabinet—Scotty pulled the blankets over them, folding his body around Pasha, so they were spooning chest to back. Under the covers, Scotty breathed softly, enjoying the warmth of the dancer’s skin against his own. And all too soon, Scotty felt Pasha fall into a deep slumber because the dancer’s body relaxed against his and his breathing became almost nonexistent. So with a whispered plea to any god that listened, Scotty prayed that he’d be able to keep this man in his arms for a little longer at least. He wasn’t asking for forever, but if it was doable than he wasn’t going to complain.


	5. Chapter 5

“No. No,” Enrico Cecchetti exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands and walking stick in the air, all the while shaking his head.

The Italian ballet master was a wonder, molding dancers into true primas and turning out dancers capable of facing and excelling at any and all challenges Diaghilev’s choreographers could throw at them. Yet more importantly, he kept the style of classical ballet very much alive within the dancing, even as it gave way to a new school of ballet.

Upon Cecchetti’s violent exclamation, the pianist stopped, her hands coming to rest on her lap while the ballet master directed his attention to Pasha, who had left _en pointe_ and returned to a loose first position. Without being told, he knew he was the weak link in today’s rehearsal and all because he wanted to be anywhere but in this room dancing.

Since leaving Scotty’s bed in the wee hours of the morning, Pasha could tear his thoughts away from the Scotsman, who looked every bit disappointed and rumpled while watching Pasha crawl from the bed and begin the search for his scattered clothes. Though regardless of his own personal feelings, he hadn’t even tried to urge Pasha back to bed, knowing that the dancer needed to return to the Savoy. Instead he had gathered the sheet around him and made a half-hearted attempt in helping Pasha dress. A half-hearted attempt that included Scotty pausing to kiss every patch of skin before it became clothed in cotton and wool. Not that Pasha was complaining. It was different… sweeter than the quick fumbles in ballet dormitories of his youth.

“Pasha. Pasha. Pasha,” Cecchetti continued mournfully, walking forward thus causing ballerina Tamara Karsavina to fall back. Tamara Karsavina was a short yet slim dark haired beauty with eyes to match (looks that were the exact opposite of Pasha’s fair hair, light eyes, and pale skin) and a favorite of Diaghilev and Fokine’s.

Cecchetti paused a mere foot from Pasha and reached out, lightly gripping the dancer’s chin, and stared into green eyes. “Where is your head this morning?”

His French accent held a mixture of Italian and Russian tones, which to anyone outside of the company might have found an interesting combination to hear (and probably laughed at); yet the dancers knew better then to disrespect their teacher. For Cecchetti, like Diaghilev and his choreographers, were to the respected and feared. Each had it in their power to make or break a ballet dancer’s career, though few rarely wished too.

Pulling his chin away from Cecchetti’s grip, Pasha took a step back, his gaze never wavering as he spoke. “My apologies, sir. Shall we try again?”

At hearing Pasha’s quick and easy apology, Cecchetti raised an eyebrow and flicked his wrist at the pianist, directing her begin the playback. While Pasha might believe himself to be capable of focus, Cecchetti knew that only his dancing would tell the truth. After all, the dancer was only hurting himself by not giving his complete mental and physical attention to their craft.

As the music began to flow, Pasha walked back to his starting position and stopped, crouching with his knees bent and hands resting flat against an unseen object and then with his head tilted curiously, he ready to begin the scene again. Once Pasha was position, Cecchetti stepped away and joined Michel Fokin, the ballet’s choreographer, at the front of the rehearsal space while Tamara retreated to stage left to await her queue.

There was a brief musical lead in before Pasha began dancing again; slowly rising from his couch, he stepped soft and hesitant from behind the imaginary rock, seeming to be intrigued by the young woman’s presence on the island, while she mirrored his tentative behavior with her own pas de valse.

With every jump, spin, and longing glance, Pasha and Tamara gave life to a haunting tale of first meetings between a young man wanting freedom and a young woman searching for her own identity in a time when women were first a father’s property then a husband’s. So like the boy on the cusp of adulthood, the sirens haunting melody had no effect on her, making her also a prisoner on this island of death and decay.

“Let us stop here for today,” Fokine announced with a clap as the score’s final note fell; thus bringing the grueling three hour rehearsal to a close.

Cecchetti and Fokine had put them through their paces, stopping and starting their pas de deux at different points through out to tweak positions, so their lines looked clean and as beautiful as they were supposed to.

Unfortunately Pasha’s distraction continued, causing the two men to become frustrated and tire of this particular scene by the time Fokine called a stop to it. Though regardless of Cecchetti’s and Fokine’s feelings toward his performance, Pasha considered himself lucky because if Sergei had been there (like he and his stick normally were) Pasha would have quickly found himself on the other end of one of Sergei’s tantrums. A place no one ever wanted to be.

><><>< 

“Pasha, where the hell have you been?”

Looking up from his conversation with Tamara, Pasha watched as Nyota stormed down the narrow hallway in her rehearsal outfit, a white knee-length tutu, a white cotton camisole, and white tights. A pale pink head scarf was tied like a ribbon around her hair, which gathered at the nape of her neck in a low bun while delicate pin curls framed her face. Nyota looked every ounce as angry as her tone would suggest. Which was why instead of finishing their conversation, Tamara turned and slipped away, leaving the friends to have their argument without her for an audience.

“Oh, Nyota,” Pasha began a little dreamily, though her quick glare caused him to fall silent and patiently wait for her lecture to begin. With Nyota, there always seemed to be another lecture just around the corner.

“You were only supposed to be gone for the morning!” Nyota hissed through clenched teeth. Pasha’s reckless behavior meant Nyota had been forced to turn their little white lie into a story that had threatened to get them both caught; luckily, another ballet dancer had quickly seen the truth and assisted Nyota, which she was grateful for.

Reaching out, Pasha grabbed her arm and steered her down the hall to a small alcove, giving her the ability to yell at him relative privacy. Once the curtain closed around them, he released Nyota and slumped against the wall, arms crossed as he stared at her.

“I can’t believe you did that to me, Pasha,” Nyota cried. “You were supposed be back by five in the evening! Not in the morning! Dmitri says you didn’t return until almost six. Of all the irresponsible behavior, I expected better of you. My god, Pasha, Sergei could have dismissed us for a stunt like this. And while you wouldn’t have any trouble finding work, I can’t say the same for myself. Europeans are a tad bit more forgiving about the color of my skin than they are in America.”

“Prosti menya, pozhaluysta,” Pasha said, face flushed with guilt. He had been so focused on his time with Scotty that he had failed to realize the gravity of the situation he’d left Nyota in. Just last year, Sergei had supposedly dismissed Vaslav Nijinsky for missing a performance in Rio; although everyone in the company knew that it was due to Nijinsky’s secret marriage than the actual performance. Diaghilev tended to be a very jealous man, especially when his lovers leave him for women.

Within the dancers’ contracts, there are stipulations which missed performances could result in firing; however Sergei took greater offence with dancers who married (secretly or not), so they were quickly dismissed and sometimes without pay, which was why Nijinsky’s firing came only as a shock to him and no one else within the company. Sergei could be a very caring taskmaster or a very vengeful one, depending on whether he felt the person had abused his trust.

Nyota’s face softened at hearing the words, only Pasha had the ability to make the fight go out of her with just a few words and the look of a kicked puppy. She knew it had everything to do with his boyish face and her own need to mother the younger man. Pulling him closer, Nyota wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek before directing him towards the low bench along the alcove’s back wall.

Once seated, she turned to Pasha and tentatively asked, “You had a wonderful time, I trust?”

Pasha smiled softly, eyes bright with excitement. “Oh Nyota, it was absolutely wonderful. He showed me his work... Airplanes, Nyota! Airplanes!” She stifled a laugh at the heaviness of his accent, caused by his exuberance, yet Pasha didn’t seem to notice for he continued to tell his story. “Then Mr. Kirk and Mr. Spock, employer and friends of Scotty’s, took us for lunch and a tour at the Athenaeum Club. The food, Nyota, and the library…”

“And last night?” Nyota shamelessly asked, making sure to gaze pointedly at the purpling bruise that was peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. With a blush on his cheeks, Pasha clapped his hand against his neck, wrapping it around the muscle and bone as he brought his other hand up to fix the collar of his shirt, pulling it up to cover the love bit.

“The Royal Observatory and then his home,” Pasha replied honestly as he folded his hands in his lap and looked away, unable to meet Nyota’s eye. There was no point in lying. Nyota knew of his preferences, so she had a fair idea of how his later evening went, though as a lady, she would have never asked for details.

“Sounds special, Pasha,” she observed cheerfully. “I glad you had such a grand time.”

“I did and I will miss him when we leave for Paris.” Nyota frowned at his statement and wrapped her hand around his, squeezing it, lending some comfort for his heartache.

In the time she had known the young Russian, Pasha never once a mild flirtation with an admirer, let alone a sexual encounter. She could only conclude that he had real feelings towards this Scotsman, which if true meant that it wasn’t going to end well for him. “Poor, love,” she murmured.

Leaning over, Pasha kissed her cheek, clearly touched by her compassion, and then rose, taking her hand and leading her back into the hallway, where other soloists were already gathering for the start of their own two hour rehearsal. “Have a good rehearsal, Nyota,” Pasha told her with a smile.

“Go take a nap,” Nyota ordered, grinning madly. “You look like you could use one,” she added with a playful wink.

“Sadly,” Pasha stated, “I have to go and rehearse some more, Master Cecchetti’s wasn’t happy with me this morning.”

“Good luck then,” she said before turning way and walking to join the three other soloists, who were just entering the rehearsal room.

><><>< 

_To my darling boy._

_It warmed your papa and mine’s heart to read your last letter. We worry much with you so far from home, though we understand that Diaghilev’s offer was too good of chance to pass up. Even if I had desired your employment with the Imperial ballet, yet such is life I suppose. We cannot always have what we wish._

_Your papa and I are going well and recently had that old, leaky roof repaired by Anton Kaverin. You remember the little boy from down the street that you used to play with. Oh that seems such long time ago. He’s married now to Iskra Samsonova, the baker’s daughter. She might have the voice an angel but she is still as plain looking as she was as a child. Yet I guess much can’t be said for taste or love truly is blind._

_Speaking of love, Pasha, what of your friend Nyota? Are you in danger of your friendship becoming more than that? I only ask because we both know that Diaghilev won’t allow you to be married and still dance with the company. I hate putting pressure on you, but you’re still young and must realize that your papa and I greatly depend on the money you send us. Without it, we’d be starving in the streets by now; although your papa says otherwise which I tend to ignore because you and I both know the truth._

_Also your papa asked me to thank you for the book you sent. It filled his heart with joy – his words, not mine. While I will never truly understand your fascination with the stars, I cannot help the heaviness in my heart at thinking that I denied you your chance at university by sending you away to train at the Imperial ballet academy. Your papa has managed to find a little work this spring as tutor to a handful of young men who plan to sit the university entrance exam in the next few months. They remind me so much of you, which saddens my heart that you must be so far from me. Though I am sure everything is going wonderfully for you in Paris. I wish I could see you dance just one more time, my boy._

_Oh… there is a knock at the door, so I must cut this letter short for I am sure it is Iskra’s brother with this week’s bread delivery. Such a sweet young man but he so loves to gossip and you know me, I’m not much one for spreading it, though I will happily listen to all the sensational bits._

_Looking forward to your next letter and keeping you in our prayers,_

_Mom_

><><>< 

“Damn it!” Scotty bellowed as he ripped his cap from head and threw it to the ground. After his third attempt at trying to crank the biplane’s rotary engine, he was ready to call this test flight a failure. The new modifications had been giving him trouble, but he thought he had managed to fix it—looked like he was wrong. Stepping away from the propeller, Scotty gave Sulu a look and shook his head before turning and repeating the action to Janice, so she could stop the filming.

“What’s wrong, Scotty?” Kirk called out, from where he and Leonard ‘Bones’ McCoy had been watching what Kirk had hoped to be another successful test flight.

“It’s the damn engine, sir,” Scotty shouted back. “It’s an absolute beast. You make a few little tweaks and the whole bloody thing decides that you’ve broken it.”

Jim sighed, disheartened by the distinct possibility of their test flight not getting off the ground. However regardless of his disappointment, he completely understood that sometimes you couldn’t always get what you wanted. So with a glance at Bones, Jim started walking, leaving Janice with the motion picture camera while he went to talk with Scotty about their little issue.

“Isn’t there another type of engine we can use?”

“Aye, there is. But it has its own drawbacks,” Scotty replied with a frown, leaving his explanation there.

“Like…?” Jim drawled after a beat of waiting. For all Scotty’s passion towards airplanes, getting the Scotsman to explain certain aspects was like pulling teeth. Sometimes it was like he just wanted Jim to take his word for it. Yet that wasn’t to say that Jim didn’t usually do that; Scotty had been hired for his skills, so of course Jim was going to trust him.

Scotty grinned at his boss and said, “Oh, sorry, Captain. A radial engine, while being faster and more reliable at start up, it’s heavier which means a larger frontal space resulting in an inefficient aerodynamic design.”

“So we aren’t using it, because it will cause a decrease in the plane’s wind resistance, thus causing a drag,” Bones clarified as he came up behind Kirk. The reason made sense to him and he was only a medical doctor.

“Aye.”

“Well, damn,” Jim muttered, before asking, “So what’s next?”

“I can go back to the drawing board on this or stick with a standard rotary engine without the added tweaks,” Scotty replied while scratching the back of his neck.

Jim waved his hand dismissively at Scotty’s suggestion. “We’ve already seen it in our first few test flights. I want something different than what Airco is producing.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good man” Jim agreed and clapped Scotty on the back before beginning the walk back to the hangar door.  While Enterprise Ltd.’s base of operation was small in comparison to Airco’s sprawling manufacturing space, Scotty had managed to take the small space and fill it with his genius. And a genius it was. In less than a year of operation, Scotty had managed to design, build, and execute their first prototypes, which had been marvels; nevertheless Jim wasn’t satisfied with just stopping there. He wanted better, which Scotty was going his best to give him.

“Does that mean we can go home?” Sulu wandered out loud, once he had joined Scotty at the nose of the plane.

Scotty let out a small bark of laughter followed by a headshake before he turned to look at the pilot. “I wish, lad,” he replied, doing his best to keep his own disappointment from showing.

Today’s non-successful test flight meant that his evening was going consist of working and reworking his engine modifications in hopes of finding the exact problem. The project didn’t and couldn’t have any more setbacks, especially when Jim was scheduled to meet with the Committee of Imperial Defence to discuss the arrangements of purchasing such a large squadron of newly minted airplanes. James T. Kirk wasn’t one to disappoint, especially when a large sum of cash was involved.

As it were, there went Scotty’s plan of seeing Pasha after tonight’s performance. Disgusted with the failure of his genius, Scotty forced all thoughts of the young, beautiful dancer to the back of his mind and focused on doing his job properly. Scotty didn’t just hold Sulu’s life in his hands; he also held the lives of everyone on the ground because one mistake could spell disaster for everyone.

“Come on, lad, help me push the original Enterprise out onto the runway,” Scotty said with a small eye roll at having to say the prototype’s name. Jim wouldn’t allow him to numerically name them; instead he forced Scotty to give them designations such as Enterprise A, Enterprise B, Enterprise C, and so on and so forth. Though of course, Scotty’s blueprints had their own designations, such as the original Enterprise’s (the first airworthy prototype) blueprints read _NCC-1701_ in black ink across the bottom.

“What for?” Sulu asked, not entirely following Scotty’s train of thought. The engineer’s mind had the terrible of habit of leaving the important bits of an explanation out, yet it still expected you to follow along.

“Because lad, you need the flight hours and I need as much peace and quiet as possible while I rip this bloody engine apart.”

So with a nod of understanding, Sulu followed him back to the hangar where Miss Rand and Jim were deep in discussion over his lack of signature on certain documents. Once they were hearing range, Jim held up his hand to Miss Rand and turned, looking at Scotty and Sulu as he said, “Gentlemen?”

“We’re pulling the original Enterprise out, so we need help shifting her,” Scotty explained.

“Good idea, Scotty,” Jim replied, nodding his head. “Miss Rand, if you’ll return to your desk, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

With a smile to her employer, the secretary left, fully trusting that he’d be following shortly and if he didn’t, then she wasn’t above sending Doctor McCoy out, who had probably already found the bottle of bourbon in Jim’s bottom desk drawer. There were really only two people who ever seemed to manage to get Jim Kirk to do anything, one was Mr. Spock and the other was Doctor McCoy; although both men had entirely different methods of going about it.

Between the three of them, they were able to push the original Enterprise out of the hangar before returning the nonfunctional prototype. It was only after Sulu was airborne that Jim left to deal with the stack of papers that urgently needed his signature; thus leaving Scotty to act as Sulu’s eyes on the ground while the pilot trained, keeping his skills fresh.

><><>< 

_With the passing seasongs, the boy watched and waited, learning the secrets of these creatures. Draped in the tattered remains of flowing white sails, the women appeared beautiful, yet in reality there was nothing beautiful about them. Their faces and bodies were hideous—a mixture of fish, bird, and man—a sight that he could rarely look directly upon. The boy had quickly realized, during those first few weeks, what these women were… Sirens, frightening creatures that sailors warned against._

_The boy knew that he should consider himself lucky. For the siren, who had found him, behaved in an almost motherly way towards him; yet while she might care for him now, the boy knew that his days as a boy were numbered. His 18 th year was fast approaching and with every year, he was one step closer to meeting his fate. The boy had heard their songs from the cliffs, had gazed upon the wrecked ships, and witnessed grown men gasping for life before the water swallowed them whole. He knew what was coming and he had no wish to join the fate of other men._

_When his 17 th year was finally upon him, the boy was ready to flee the isle and return to the land of his childhood. Although it seemed fate had made other plans for the boy…_


	6. Chapter 6

“Captain!” Scotty yelled after finally managing to catch a glimpse of his watch. As he spoke, he let the wrench in his hand to slip through his fingers and land on the hangar floor with a clatter. He’d been so focused on the faulty engine that Scotty had completely lost all track of time.

Once Sulu had grown bored of doing aerials, Scotty had returned to the hanger to spend what was left of his afternoon with his head buried in the guts of the failed prototype. There was no way a piece of machinery that he built was going to outsmart him; the Scotsman wasn’t going to stand for it.

“I need to borrow your car!”

As soon as the words left Scotty’s mouth, Jim’s head popped out of his office followed by the rest of him, looking very thankful for the distraction. Miss Rand had been holding him hostage for the last three hours, forcing him to sign document after document, and McCoy had beat a hasty retreat sometime during the first hour, claiming he had patients to see, which Jim had found suspicious and highly unlikely. Yet he knew better than to open his mouth; otherwise, Bones would find every reason to stick him with his giant needles.

“Have somewhere important to be?” Jim asked with his usual brand of cheekiness; although the moment he got a good look at Scotty’s agitated state, the American knew that this wasn’t a game. “Go, go,” he all but ordered, pointing to where he’d parked his car that morning, along the west side of the building.

Without bothering to reply or even thank his boss, Scotty sprinted for the car, wrenching the door open with such force that left Jim wondering if he’d should worry about his car door falling off in the next few days. Jim continued to watch Scotty as he peeled out of the airfield as fast as Jim’s silver Ghost would go.

A bittersweet smile appeared on Scotty’s face as he drove, his mind recalling how Pasha and him had said their reluctant goodbyes in the pre-dawn light. If Scotty had had his way, he and Pasha would have spent the day in bed, twisting and tangling the sheets until the absolutely need for food forced them up. Unfortunately Pasha had stopped Scotty’s plan before it even began, all because he had felt Pasha stirring.

_The dancer’s eyelashes fluttered against the darkness as he shifted, dislodging Scotty’s arm from his waist before he swung his legs over the side, stretching and flexing the muscles and tendons in his feet and calves, and lengthened his arms and torso, like he was reaching for the ceiling. As he moved, Scotty watched through a dim daze, his eyes tracing every inch of smooth pale skin before allowing his fingers to follow the same path his eyes had just taken._

_Turning his head, Pasha gave Scotty a soft grin and leaned down, kissing Scotty with a hint of teeth. Morning breath be damned, Scotty was going to enjoy what little time he had left with Pasha._

_“When does your rehearsal start?” Scotty asked, voice rough with sleep._

_“Not until 9,” Pasha told him and then added, “but I have to be at the barre by half seven.”_

_“Barre?” Scotty murmured while stifling a yawn. His question was partly out of curiosity and partly just because he liked listening to sound of Pasha’s voice, whose accent was deeper… richer… due to mixture of sleep and what Scotty liked to think was his own sexual prowess._

_Pasha shrugged. “We must be limber before rehearsals starts.”_

_“Ah,” Scotty replied as he pushed up on his elbows and trailed kisses up Pasha’s spine, making the dancer squirm because of his stubbled cheeks. With a kiss pressed on the top knob of Pasha’s spine, Scotty pulled the younger man into a heated kiss while wrapping his arms around Pasha’s waist, twisting in such a way that would hopefully force the younger man to return to bed._

_Yet Pasha wasn’t having any of it; pressing both hands to Scotty’s chest, Pasha broke their kiss and then stroked Scotty’s cheek. “I must go,” he whispered sadly. “I can’t miss two days in a row.”_

_“I understand, love.” Scotty leaned forward, resting his forehead against Pasha’s. “When can I see you again?”_

_“I don’t know,” Pasha answered with such broken honesty. “Our final performance is today and then we leave for Paris from Charing Cross at six.” Pasha thought if told Scotty would use this information… and just maybe the engineer would be there for his final show._

_From there little was said as Scotty watched Pasha redressed, smoothing out his rumpled shirt and trousers as best he could before putting them back on. As he twisted and bent, Pasha snuck glances at Scotty, biting back a smile at the expression of wonder in the Scotsman’s face. It was like he couldn’t believe that Pasha was actually here with him. When it was finally time for Pasha to leave, Scotty rose and wrapped a sheet around him, following the younger man as far as the third step from the bottom. And it was only after the door closed softly but firmly behind Pasha, did Scotty cross to the front door and ensure the front door was locked before returning to bed for the few remaining hours he had left until morning._

With a shake of his head, Scotty refocused on the road and the traffic, weaving in and out of the cars and pedestrians; he just had to make to the train station before Pasha left for Paris. Otherwise, Scotty was certain that Pasha would forever think the worse of him and there was no way that Scotty was going to allow that to happen.

><><><>< 

“Pasha! Wait!” Nyota demanded, dogging Pasha’s heels as he practically ran down the platform, trying to get away from his friend. It was only after Pasha had slowed down that Nyota was able to lay her hand on his shoulder and jerk, forcing him to turn and look at her.

Nyota searched Pasha’s face, hoping that she wouldn’t find what she feared written across his face. When Pasha had finally _arrived_ at breakfast, he’d been almost bursting with excitement and happiness, and it had lasted through stretches, rehearsals, and their final performance. Yet sometime between their performance and them rushing to collect their luggage from the Savoy, Pasha’s mood had turned foul. And Nyota had tried her damnedest to get Pasha to talk to her; but he’d rebuffed her at every opportunity. Even going as far as to duck into Sergei’s own cab… something that Pasha would have avoided at all cost under normal circumstances.

“Nyota, let me go,” Pasha growled through clenched teeth as he yanked his shoulder from her loose grasp. He hated feeling like this and even though she’d never judge him, Pasha didn’t want her to see the tears that would surely come if she forced him to talk about it.

Pasha had foolishly thought that Scotty would be different and the engineer had shown in all the ways that matter that he was. Yet the moment Pasha realized that Scotty wasn’t in the audience or loitering around the theatre lobby after the show, the dancer knew that he’d been fooled and Scotty turned out to be exactly like the rest of the perverted leeches who hung around after shows.

“Pasha, please stop and talk to me,” Nyota pleaded. “I’m your friend, you can tell me.”

Shaking his head violently, Pasha smiled sadly at his friend before he turned away, walking further down station platform. Pasha wanted to be anywhere but here; he didn’t even want to return to Paris. The young dancer just wanted to go home to his mother’s loving embrace because she’d know exactly how to help mend his broken heart, even while she reminded him again and again the perils of falling in love with a person you couldn’t really have.

As much as Nyota wanted to follow her friend, she understood that Pasha needed time to himself. The Scotsman had caused a change in her friend, made him happier than Nyota had ever seen before and just as quickly, he had managed to break the Russian. It would be some time before Pasha would find his own happiness again.

“A broken heart is easily fixed, Nyota,” Sergei all but purred in her ear, startling the young woman and causing her to turn her gaze from Pasha’s back. “All it takes is a little distraction.”

Closing her eyes, Nyota mentally counted to ten before turning to look her employer in the eye. Sergei could be as slippery as a snakeskin salesman or as loving as a first time father; though only when his own wants and desires were ultimately served. And Pasha was one of his wants. Sergei had been trying to lure the young Russian into his bed since Nijinsky’s dismissal the previous spring; yet Pasha had held firm, even when his continued refusals could spell the end of his own career with the Ballet Russes.

“Pasha is fine, Diaghilev,” Nyota replied evenly, taking great care to show no fear as she spoke. “A troubling letter from home nothing more,” she added with a nonchalant shrug.

“Ah,” he murmured, “maybe I should offer my assistance. As I’m sure you are aware, I have many connections in Russia.” Everyone in the company knew the extent of Sergei’s connections and the price a dancer would pay for use of them. Prior to Nijinsky’s marriage and subsequent dismissal, the dancer never actually received a salary; instead Sergei had paid for everything and even provided an allowance for Nijinsky’s mother. Not that Nyota believed that Nijinsky had been forced (possibly coerce) into becoming Sergei’s lover; though she did often wondered about certain aspects of Diaghilev’s relationship with some of his male dancers. 

With a weary smile, Nyota muttered a quick, “I’ll be sure to let Pasha know.”

“You do that, my dear.” Having spoken his piece, Sergei banged his walking stick once and then turned, leaving Nyota to her thoughts.

><><><>< 

“I need one ticket to Paris,” Scotty panted, out of breath due to his run from the car. Regular exercise wasn’t exactly on Scotty’s list of priorities; although that wasn’t to say that he couldn’t lift a hundred and fifty pounds when he had to. However the only running he did was when something went a little off the rails and he was forced to chase after it.

The elderly ticket clerk blinked at the forcefulness of Scotty’s brogue and asked, “What berth, sir?”

“Just give me a bloody ticket, man!”

The ticket clerk nodded. “That will be 4 pound 16 bob, sir,” the clerk replied, not bothering to hide his smirk.

“Bloody hell,” Scotty remarked while digging for his wallet; an exclamation said more due to principle than an actual complaint. Scotty would have paid anything just too ensure he saw Pasha at least once more.

After handing over his money, Scotty began to tap impatiently against the counter as he mentally hurried the clerk to write faster. “Platform 4, sir,” the clerk stated solemnly before handing over the ticket, which Scotty snatched. “It’s due to leave in 10 minutes, sir. You’d better hurry,” the clerk called back as he watched the engineer sprint from the counter.

Picking up his pace, Scotty jogged through the dense crowd, dodging passengers and porters as he made his way towards platform 4. He needed to see Pasha before the dancer left for Paris… needed to tell him how he felt before he lost his chance. While Scotty wasn’t naïve enough to believe that Pasha would give up his life with the Ballet Russes, he at least had to try. Didn’t they deserve their own happy ending?

As soon as he entered platform 4, Scotty slowed his pace, eyes darting left and right as he scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of the curly haired dancer. There was one thing that Scotty hated about passengers taking the boat train to Paris… none of them ever seemed to plan on arriving early for it. So instead of a clear platform in front of the waiting train, it tended to be crowded with hurried goodbyes and elbows being shoved into soft sides as people tried to make the train in time.

After giving the crowd another quick scan, Scotty glanced at his watch and then slowly made his way towards the first class carriage; but he stopped when a young African woman stood in his path. Normally Scotty wouldn’t have given her a second glance, yet her distressed expression caused him to pause, making him wonder if she was in need of help.

What happened next though, Scotty hadn’t been expecting. Without a word being exchanged, the young woman’s hand rose and landed a slap across his before she pulled him in hug. “He’s at the end of the platform, towards the front of the train,” she whispered in his ear.

“Thank you, lass,” Scotty returned softly while pulling away. His eyes already drifting over her shoulder, hoping he’d catch a glance of Pasha’s head.

“Hurry,” she urged as Scotty broke into a jog, pushing through the throng of people standing between him and Pasha. After what seemed like hours, Scotty finally managed to get through the crowd, stopping only once he was a mere foot from the young dancer. “I’m so sorry, lad,” Scotty stated, causing the dancer to turn and look him.

“Scotty…”

“I’m so sorry,” Scotty repeated; his face a picture of contrite. “There are no excuses in the world to make up for missing your performance. I just hope you’ll forgive me.”

“You came?” As he spoke the words, Pasha’s face morphed from one of silent fury to one of absolute wonder at seeing Scotty inches from his grasp.

“Of course I came, lad,” Scotty murmured softly, causing a radiant smile to flash across Pasha’s face, which made Scotty believe that the dancer understood what he was saying without having to speak the words aloud. There were certain words between lovers that the general public had no business hearing.

Ignoring the porter’s pleas to board the train, Pasha reached out and gripped Scotty’s wrist. “I thought you didn’t—“

“Never, lad,” Scotty interrupted while pulling Pasha away from the train and to the opposite side where platform three was. Once he was sure they wouldn’t be overheard, Scotty said, “Tell me what you want, lad.”

Biting his lip, Pasha gave Scotty a look of uncertainty and asked, “What if I want to stay?”

“You’d give up Diaghilev for me?”

“For us,” Pasha corrected with a small shake of his head. “I danced because that is what my mama wanted, never what I wanted. This is what I want,” he said, emphasizing his remark by waving his hand, encompassing the station and Scotty.

“What about your parents?” Scotty wandered aloud, not daring to hope that Pasha could just walk away from Diaghilev and there not be any consequences for his actions. Scotty wasn’t ignorant to Pasha’s responsibilities where his parents were concerned.

During their evening at the Royal Observatory, Scotty and Pasha had talked of their childhoods, their families… really anything that came to mind and it was during those few hours that Scotty learned the scope of Pasha’s love for his parents. The young dancer had forsaken his own dreams in order to provide for his aging parents; a trait that Scotty thought was admirable if a little tragic.

“I have a little savings,” he replied with a half-hearted shrug. For every franc that Pasha had sent to his parents, Pasha had tucked another three away into a rainy day fund for that moment when he decided that he couldn’t… no wouldn’t stay with Diaghilev any longer. Here was his chance, a chance to find his own happiness.

Scotty grinned at Pasha’s statement, wishing that he could kiss the wonderful man in front of him; instead he settled for running his fingers across the back of Pasha’s hand. As he did it, he began to understand why Jim and Spock showed their affection for each other in this way. No one was the wiser as to the truth behind such a simple touch.

It was while they had been speaking that a porter had made one last final call to board the train before the doors were shut and the train pulled out of the station, slowly gaining speed as it crossed the Thames on its way to Dover where it’d met the boat for Paris.

“What about your luggage?” Scotty asked after a beat; but only once he was sure the train wasn’t going to turn around and come back for Pasha, even if the engineer knew it would never happen expect if the King of England ordered it.

With another shrug, Pasha said, “I’ll wire Adolph and ask him to please send my luggage and… possibly the contents of my apartment?”

“Definitely,” Scotty affirmed while leading Pasha back towards the platform’s entrance. As they neared, Pasha noticed a familiar figure speaking with a porter. A figure that had every intention of staying behind as well if the two valises, hat box, and beaded clam-shaped purse sitting at her feet were any indication.

“Nyota, what are you doing here?”

The woman turned at the sound of his voice, smiling widely as she quipped, “Now what kind of friend would I be if I let you have all the fun?”

“So we are ready for our next big adventure?” Pasha asked, referring to shared ambition of opening a ballet studio once their time in the spotlight ended. A ballet dancer’s career never lasted as long as one would have liked; their best years lasted until they were in late twenties and then they were considered old, resigned to background or acting as a mentor for the younger dancers.

“I think so,” Nyota replied with a definite nod of her chin. Sure, she could have continued with Diaghilev and shined as his exotic treasure; but it wouldn’t be the same without Pasha by her side. He was the only one that didn’t see her as an outsider, who didn’t belong among the ranks of the Russian primas.

Once they gathered Nyota’s luggage, Scotty lead the pair towards Jim’s car, listening as Pasha and Nyota discussed her options… namely where she was going to live and whether she even wanted to open a studio. After all, treading the boards at the Palace Theatre was always a possibility.

><><><>< 

“Gentlemen, I think you’ll be truly amazed by what we have for you today,” Jim promised the group of stodgy-looking gentlemen. His voice dripped with charisma, sounding every bit like the charlatans of his childhood. Almost every summer, a _traveling doctor_ would come through town to hawk his wares—phony cure alls—to the gullible masses.

“Sounds like a god damn snake oil salesman if you ask me,” McCoy muttered to the gathered group as he watched Jim lead the British officials towards the awaiting plane.

To mark the special occasion, Jim had opened their flight to friends and family, allowing everyone to bask in their accomplishment, even if they happened not to receive the government contract. A thought that Spock found to be highly illogical given certain facts, such as Jim’s ability of always coming out of top, especially when the cards were stacked against him.

“What’s a snake oil salesman?” Pasha asked, once he finished translating for his parents, who spoke and understood very little English; but they were learning more and more every day.

With Spock’s connections (due to his father being ambassador), Scotty had been able to assist Pasha in getting his parents out of Russia. While the couple had been sad to leave the only home they’d ever known, they were overjoyed by the prospect of living in England, especially when it meant they’d be so close to their son.  

“A swindler who sales fake medicine to the mass,” McCoy supplied and then blew into his gloved hands, trying to breathe warmth back into them. One would think that after five years of living in England, he would have gotten used to the cold; but he hadn’t and the cold snap that had settled over the pleasant September weather hadn’t helped much.

“Oh,” Pasha murmured, nodding his head in thanks, before informing his parents of McCoy’s explanation.

The idioms and colloquialisms used by McCoy and Kirk tended to leave certain members of their group confused, namely him and Nyota, as English wasn’t their first language (and Spock’s American mother hadn’t passed much her own culture to her son—other than her language--, choosing instead to defer to her husband’s own wishes).

“Is it not Jim’s purpose to entice them so they will reward him the contract, Dr. McCoy?” Spock said solemnly, inclining his head as he spoke.

“Bloody entice,” Scotty grumbled lowly, clearly put off by Spock’s slight against his lady. “She is a thing of beauty. They should be honored for even being allowed to see her fly.” Pasha reached around Nyota and rubbed his arm, hoping his touch with soothe the engineer’s hurt feelings. Scotty’s passion for his job meant that he tended to become quickly attached to his machines, especially those he was responsible for designing and building.  

“Scotty!”

At the sound of Jim’s voice, the group glanced towards the American, who was actively waving at them, motioning for Scotty to come and join him. So with nervous hands, Scotty quickly straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair, and said, “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck,” Pasha snorted as he came to stand in front of his lover, slapping his hands away to fix the tie he’d managed to make crooked. Once he was satisfied Scotty’s tie was straight, Pasha rested his hands on Scotty’s chest, patting lightly, as he said, “You know her inside and out. Now go, don’t keep them waiting.”

"Tha gaol agam ort," Scotty murmured softly, knowing exactly what his Scottish Gaelic brogue did to the dancer, and loving every time he got to see it happen. With pinked ears, Pasha shoved at Scotty’s chest, earning a booming laugh for his troubles, although Pasha would have preferred his usual kiss; yet there would time for that later.

“Go!” He urged forcefully, watching as Scotty turned and started jogging towards Jim and Sulu, who had been waiting patiently beside his airplane while Jim had been wowing the heads of the Committee of Imperial Defense.

Once Scotty was gone, Nyota looped her arm through Pasha’s and rested her head on his shoulder, asking, “Happy, brat?” Although her accent would never be perfect, Nyota tried her best to roll her tongue at the top of her mouth for the _r._

“Very,” he affirmed, squeezing the hand on his elbow and placing a kiss on her hair as he stared at his own happy ending, who was gesturing wildly and passionately as he wax poetic about the Enterprise.

><><><>< 

_Her brother and his crew were gone. The young woman had such high hopes for their voyage; she was finally going to escape the curse that women fell under. There would no marriage, no children, no servitude in her future, only the wild open sky and the blue waters. What a foolish child she was?_

_The sirens had been swift in their allurements and now she was alone on the island, fearful of being found out by the sirens. But that all changed when she stumbled upon a boy on the cusp of manhood, who was as beautiful to her as the sirens song were to sailor’s ears. The boy stopped and stared, looking every bit amazed by her presence as she was by his._

_“Where did you come from,” she asked, “are you a dream?”_

_The boy shook his head. “I live here.”_

_“How long?”_

_“Half my life, it seems,” he told her. “I washed ashore as a child, but I’m leaving soon. I have too.” The reason for his desperation went unsaid for they both knew what adulthood meant for him. A watery grave._

_So with a single minded focus, they worked—planning and collecting for their voyage, a journey that would hopefully take them far from the island and towards home._

_On their final day, the girl looked off into the distance and gazed at their ketch as it rose and fell with the beat of the waves. Their time was growing shorten, and soon it would be too late for the boy she had fallen in love with. Harm wouldn’t befall him if she had the ability to save him._

_Which was why, she turned and watched with anguished eyes as the siren’s song began anew… drawing the boy from her, leading him from the beach and towards the cliff where he would meet his fate. So without a care for her own safety, she rushed forward, grabbing him and then tugging and pushing with her strength, pleading with him to get into the ship._

_It seemed like an eternity had passed before she managed to get him into the ketch, even going as far as to tie him to the mast to ensure his safety. So with an expertise taught to her by her brother, the girl skillfully navigated the ketch through the graveyard and into the open ocean, steering it towards home._


End file.
